Slide Away
by Enlee
Summary: House has to dig up the past after burying his father. The sequel to "You Don't Know How It Feels". House/Cuddy. The last chapter is now up. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

"You drugged me," House said after limping into Cuddy's living room. He had spent all day being dragged miles and miles to his father's funeral and back by Wilson and looked every bit of it. Outside, the last remains of Fall held onto the night sky.

"Yes, I did," she stated matter-of-factly, waiting for House to give her a tongue-lashing.

He didn't. He just asked her why.

"Your mother wanted you there," Cuddy explained quietly, closing the door against the chill. "That alone should have got you there, but it didn't. Wilson and I just helped you along."

"Even though I didn't want to go."

Cuddy crossed her arms over her chest and said, "This was for your mother, House. You owe her that much and you know it."

"I don't owe anything to anybody," House declared, though he didn't sound quite as grandiose as he usually did.

"You owe your mother some common courtesy."

He sighed and muttered, "Mom got her wish", then carefully lowered himself onto the sofa. "Did you really have to drug me?"

"Yes." She walked over and sat down beside him.

"You actually thought that was a good idea? What's next…a bear trap under my desk?"

"It was the only way. You got _your_ wish, didn't you?"

"How's that?"

"You got to spend some time with Wilson."

House grinned and it touched his tired eyes. "I did. That was your plan all along, wasn't it?"

"No, my plan was to knock your sorry ass out and get you to the funeral. Wilson coming along for the ride was an added bonus." Cuddy grinned back, pleased to see he was in a relatively good mood in spite of all that had happened.

"What a bonus it was. Too bad you weren't able to join us. You should have seen the look on his face when that old arrest warrant from Louisiana turned up when we got pulled over."

"Arrest warrant?" Cuddy gaped. "He didn't say anything about an arrest warrant. Do I even want to know what it was for? Is there a wanted criminal working in my hospital?"

After chuckling at the memory, House said, "Relax, it was just what crazy college kids do when they're drunk and bored and fight over the merits of Billy Joel songs. The state of Louisiana decided it wasn't worth hauling his butt over there for a twenty year old not-so-criminal crime. No need to lose any sleep over whether Wilson is great-great-grandson of Jack the Ripper."

"That's always good to hear," she said, with a sigh of relief that came out heavier than she intended. "Where have you been? You two got back hours ago."

"Having dinner with Wilson and listening to him bitch about having to bring all his stuff back here."

Cuddy's grin stretched into a face-splitting smile. "He'll be back in two weeks."

"He only gave you one week's notice--the prick."

"Two weeks is better than nothing," she pointed out.

"It is," House agreed.

"He doesn't have to come back at all."

"Don't remind me."

She slid closer and brushed her hand along his scruffy cheek. The gesture had grown to be automatic, a silent way of letting House know she cared, and House had learned to greatly appreciate it. He no longer flinched away when she touched him…well, he still did sometimes when he was upset. But he was getting better.

"Lets not give him a reason to change his mind and quit on us all over again," she said.

"I wasn't going to."

"Neither was I." She reached over and took his hand.

"Wilson and I are going bowling on Saturday."

Bowling was something she could never get into, but decided it wasn't the right time to disparage one of his past-times. House honestly enjoyed bowling and enjoyed it even more when playing with his best friend. Wilson was back, they were friends again and that's all that mattered. "I hope you two have fun," she said.

"Thanks," he muttered. "Cuddy?"

"Yes?"

"My dad died." House was suddenly solemn, his mood changing is if a switch had been flipped.

"I'm know," she said softly, giving the hand she was holding a gentle squeeze. With a pang of regret she noticed the sadness in his eyes…and something else. Something that only came to surface whenever House talked about his father, which was almost never. "I'm sorry, House."

"I want to be sorry, too, but I'm not." He looked away as if he was trying to soften the blow. Except Cuddy couldn't tell if it was to soften the blow for himself or for her. "I'm not sad that he's dead. He was a bastard to the very end. I'm sad because even though he's dead, it doesn't change anything, then or now."

"Why do you say such nasty things about your father, House?"

He looked at her, contemplating the question, before answering, "It's been a long day. I already buried the son of a bitch once today and don't feel like digging up any memories right now."


	2. Chapter 2

The long day caught up with House and he ended up crashing in her bed rather early in the evening, asleep before his head hit the pillow. She could hear him snoring clear out in the living room and wound up closing the bedroom door before it drove her nuts.

She switched on the TV and tried to watch a movie, putting her feet up on the table just like House did. Relaxing back into the cushions and staring straight at the television didn't help in the least; her mind kept wandering back to House.

_I already buried the son of a bitch once today… _

Cuddy had never met John or Blythe House, but in the few conversations in which he mentioned one or the other or both, it was perfectly clear which parent House favored. Mrs. House was simply referred to as "Mom" while Mr. House was more often than not called "bastard", "son of a bitch" or "asshole". Every now and then if House was feeling particularly generous his dad would in fact be "Dad". But those times were few and far between, and had barely occurred at all in the last few months. Like he had done earlier in the evening House wouldn't go into detail about his father; he just wouldn't talk about it all or change the subject.

Why did House hate his father? Good question. House had never given a specific reason. Cuddy didn't think it was one single specific reason anyway. She got the impression that House and his father had clashed over anything and everything from the beginning and it just got worse as time went on. If John House was even half as stubborn and territorial as his son, Cuddy could see why.

Would House ever talk about it? He knew she would listen to whatever he to say, if he had anything to say at all. He would talk when he was ready. If he didn't….then he didn't. Trying to get House to do something he didn't want to do was like, well, like punching out the bathroom mirror--it served no purpose at all and made a huge mess for everyone involved.

_Don't push him, Lisa. Remember what happened the last time?_

All too clearly. House had had a meltdown right in her living room and some of her possessions had paid the price. Thankfully it wasn't as bad as it could have been. The broken stuff had been replaced with House's money the exception of the air mattress he had murdered earlier, which she hadn't bothered to replace since House managed to fast talk his way into her bed and never left. There was enough money left over to get a new coat and shoes. House had noticed the new shoes. He'd notice the new coat when the weather got cooler.

Would she want to hear the real reason why House hated his father? Probably not, but she would be there for him no matter what.

The movie was positively stupefying and nothing else worth watching was on, so she decided it was time join House and call it a night. It was still early but an extra hour or two of sleep was always welcome. Especially if it involved sleeping next to House.

Cuddy opened the bedroom door carefully, ever mindful of disturbing him. Not to worry, his snoring continued without the slightest break. Golden light from hallway fell across the bed; House was sprawled across it, taking up a good three fourths of the mattress. She could see he was bare-chested; he must have been too tired to put on any of the extra night clothes he had brought over and had just stripped down to his boxers. His clothes were probably in a pile on the floor, and a glance as she walked to the chest of drawers to get a nightshirt proved Cuddy right. Wrinkled all to hell but still very much wearable as far as House was concerned. She wondered if House had ever held an iron in his life. Breaking down and ironing his clothes herself was out of the question. If he could live with it, so could she.

His snoring, though turned down a few notches, still carried to the bathroom and Cuddy grinned even as she brushed her teeth. So comfortable in her bed. So comfortable with her. He stayed over at least three nights a week now. Sleeping next to him was something she wished could happen every night, but something was better than nothing, at least for now. House himself seemed quite content with the arrangement. He certainly didn't mind waking up in a bed that wasn't his and wolfing down whatever she made him for breakfast. Was that all he wanted? Would he ever want something more?

_Slow down, Lisa. The man's father just died. House has more than a few daddy issues to deal with first._

And I'll be right here to deal with them and House, too, she thought as she rinsed out her mouth and dropped her bright pink toothbrush back into the holder.

Saying House was a complicated man was like saying the ocean was a bit wet. Every time she thought she had him at least half-way figured out he would turn around and add a new piece to the puzzle, a new layer to peel away and look underneath, a new question that needed an answer. The man was a walking, talking enigma and he seemed to revel in it. He loved keeping her on her toes. Well that was a good sign if he thought she was worth the effort to keep her guessing. Pursuing the answer was what he wanted out of her, since that meant she had to pursue him in the process.

Back in the bedroom House still had his arm stretched over her side of the bed, making it impossible to climb in without touching him and possibly waking him up. But she needed some shut-eye too and needed the space to sleep in, so she picked up his arm and carefully placed hit across his abdomen. He grunted but didn't open his eyes.

Cuddy got under the covers and slid over until their hips were touching. His snoring had died down to a low buzzing. She could live with that, and entwined her fingers in the hand she had moved before resting her head against his shoulder and closing her eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Did he ever sleep through the night?

It was four in the morning and House had been up and about for who knows how long. Since House started sleeping over there had been maybe one or two times where she had woke up before he did. Every other time she found him watching TV or playing solitaire while drinking up her gourmet coffee. She had to start keeping extra coffee and frozen pancakes for him. He couldn't get enough of those damn pancakes, especially the blueberry ones, though strawberry would do in a pinch. Sometimes he would eat a few during his nightly excursions, leave the plate for her to wash, then turn around and eat what she handed him in the morning before heading to the hospital and leave the plate for her to wash all over again. Faint voices from the television carried down to the bedroom. Stern but pleasant and to-the-point voices. House must be watching the CNN.

Extra sleep or not, Cuddy didn't feel like getting up. She still had another hour to go and decided she had earned it. She lay there and drifted off again as the faint televisions voices swirled around the dark.

* * *

He had her make a huge stack of pancakes. Blueberry. Drowned in syrup.

Since House had crashed and burned so early, she didn't get a chance to ask him anything about his little adventure from the day before. "How did the funeral go?" she asked, bringing her bowl of cereal to the table.

"A lot of people there," House answered, sounding a little surprised at the thought of one person, let alone a crowd actually coming by to pay their last respects to his father.

"Did you give the eulogy?"

"I did," he said, suddenly interested in the last remains of his waffles.

"What did you say?" Cuddy gently pressed on.

"That he could have been a better father and I could have been a better son."

"Is that all?"

"I could have said a lot more." House's voice took on the hard edge whenever he talked about his father. This time was no exception. "Believe me, I wanted to. But I didn't. I did that for my mother's sake."

"How is she doing?" Cuddy munched on a some cereal and waited.

House said sincerely, "She's doing very well, thank you."

"You said they were married for 50 years?"

"They were."

"She must have loved him very much."

"Love had nothing to do with it, Cuddy."

Not believing a word of it, she asked incredulously, "Nobody stays with someone they don't love for fifty years. Nobody. Why did she marry him if she didn't love him?"

"That's what women of her generation did. Get married." House explained after eating a few more bites of his breakfast. "Maybe she did love him in the beginning. I don't know. But I do know that she stayed with him because he put a roof over our heads and food on the table. That's something we never had to worry about. He provided for us if nothing else. That almost made up for his inflexible schedules. Lunch at noon, dinner at six on the dot. You could set your watch by his timetables."

"Your mother never complained about anything?" Her cereal finished, Cuddy pushed the bowl aside.

"Sometimes she would bitch about him and his rules, but never to his face. Not that he would have listened if she had."

"What about you? Why do you hate him so much?"

"Because he hated me."

Swallowing the lump that formed in her throat the second those words were spoken, she reached for his hand and asked, "Why did he hate you? How could a father hate his own son?"

He looked over at the hand holding his, and for a moment she expected his dislike of being touched to rise up and make him pull away from her grip. But he didn't, and a wave of relief washed over her when she saw the tiny smile tug at the corners of his mouth as if he was pleased with her friendly gesture. Then he remembered the subject at hand and the smile instantly vanished.

"I wasn't the son he wanted," House began. "He wanted a little clone of him, someone who would take orders without question just like he did. See, I think he fully expected me to follow in his footsteps and do just what he did, when he did it. Being the snot-nosed little shit I was, I questioned _everything_. I asked why we had to things this way instead of that way. I questioned why it was such a terrible thing if dinner was five minutes late. I questioned why we had to do anything. Hoo boy…he didn't like that at all. He played football in high school and wanted me to play, too. Nevermind that I never cared for football. Truthfully I hated fucking football so I played lacrosse instead. I loved it and was damn good at it. He didn't like that I went against his wishes again and never saw me play."

"Not one game?" Cuddy asked.

"Nope. My mother came to every game she could. Some of my fellow players thought she was divorced or a widow since she was always there by herself."

"I'm sorry, House." She squeezed his hand.

"Don't be. I'm sure as hell not," he said flatly. "By then I was glad he never showed up. That way he wouldn't embarrass me in front of my friends. I used to wonder if he realized that he was doing me a favor by not showing up. It was sort of an unintentional extension of one nice deliberate thing he did for me…just one thing, but it was great."

"What?"

"He didn't speak to me for an entire summer."

Cuddy sucked in her breath. "Why did he do that?"

"He was mad at me…_again_. Let's see…I was about 14 or so. My last report card before summer vacation wasn't to his liking and we got into a screaming fight about it. Two days after school was out he slipped a note under my door with a list of chores he wanted me to do that week--mow the lawn, help Mom with grocery shopping and laundry, do the dishes, stuff like that. That went on all summer long. Every few days there would be another note under my door with a list of things he wanted me to do. And I did them all without saying a word. Do you want to know why?"

Cuddy nodded. "Why?"

"Because he would leave me alone when I did. See, the only times he ever talked to me were to tell me to do something, tell me I was doing something wrong, or to complain that he didn't understand why I didn't want to be just like him. So, if all his stupid chores were done when he got home, he didn't have a reason to say a word to me, and since he never complimented one goddamn thing I did…well, I think you get the idea. My mother knew he was being an unreasonable prick but there was nothing she could about it. So she became my best friend that summer. When we would to the store she would stop at the Baskin-Robbins along the way and let me get an ice cream cone. He never knew about it. That was the first summer in a long time that I escaped relatively unscathed from my father's wrath. Just a few bruises here and there."

"Bruises?" Cuddy puzzled. The faint sound of House's breath catching in his throat told her that he had let something slip. Something that wasn't supposed to reach her ears. "What on earth do you mean by 'only a few bruises'?"

"Nothing."

"Your words never mean nothing."

"There's a first time for everything."

"Not this time." Cuddy said. "He did more than flip-flop between yelling at you and ignoring you, didn't he?"

House didn't answer; he just closed his eyes and sighed.

"House--"

"We need to get going." House got up and put his plate in the sink.


	4. Chapter 4

"Did you ever meet his father?" Cuddy asked Wilson as he reached for the complimentary nachos.

"A few times," he answered. "Does House know we're having lunch together?"

"No. What was Mr. House like?"

"Cold and to the point. One of those 'my way or the highway' people. House definitely picked _that_ up from his father. But there wasn't any love lost between them. The tension between them was almost palpable…to say that it could be cut with a knife is the understatement of the year. You could scoop it up and make sundaes with it."

The waiter brought their drinks: water for Cuddy and iced tea with lemon for Wilson. After the waiter left Cuddy asked, "Tension from what?"

"They couldn't stand the sight of each other," he said between munching on the nachos and dipping them in salsa. "Just being in the same room without screaming at each other was a miracle. I really hate to say this but I think House had more than a few good reasons to not care that his father died."

Cuddy sipped her drink and asked, "Like what?"

"Nothing House did was ever good enough for dear old dad. Daddy Dearest was never there for Junior. Crap like that."

"What else?"

Wilson looked up at his former boss, now soon-to-be current boss. "Why are you giving me the third degree about a man neither of us know? Why don't you ask House?"

She ignored his questions and had another one of her own. "Did House ever mention any….abuse?"

"Cuddy, I think--"

"Did he ever mention it, Wilson?" Her tone demanded an answer.

There was an unspoken agreement between House and Wilson that their conversations about things outside the hospital were held in the strictest confidence. Translation: it was nobody else's business. Betraying House's trust was the last thing he wanted to do now that he winning that trust back. After a few moments Wilson said, "We never had this conversation."

"I know." Cuddy rested her chin in her hands and waited.

"If House asks we were just having a nice lunch to celebrate me returning to the hospital."

"Of course."

Wilson took a sip of his drink. "He never actually came out and said he was abused, but a few of the things he told me over the years certainly sounded like abuse to me."

"Go on,"Cuddy encouraged him. From the corner of her eye she could see the waiter arriving with their meals.

After the waiter flitted to another table and a napkin was on Wilson's lap, the oncologist said, "He said that his father wasn't shy about using his belt, among other things. Whether House actually deserved a whipping as punishment for misbehaving--or if he was even misbehaving at all--was beside the point."

"Good God." Cuddy pressed her lips into a thin line. She looked down at her enchiladas, her appetite coming to a screeching halt. But she couldn't bring herself to waste a plate of perfectly good food and took a bite. "What do you mean by other things?"

"Do you really want to know?" Wilson peered across the table at her, his expression dark and serious.

After glancing around to see if anyone else was listening, Cuddy leaned over and quietly told him, "You don't have to give me the gory details. Just the 'in a nutshell' version."

"House told me that his dad sometimes got _creative_ with his punishments. Like the time he didn't talk to him for an entire summer."

"He told me about that this morning." Cuddy paused with a forkful of cheese-dripping enchilada halfway to her mouth. "He said his dad slipped him notes under the door."

"Really? House told you that?" Wilson sounded skeptical.

"How else would I know about it?" she countered.

He shrugged while pushing the beans and rice around his plate, then said, "He must trust you."

"I like to think I earned that trust."

"You have. So what are we doing here, talking behind his back?"

"We're not; we're having a nice lunch. You were saying…?"

"He also mentioned that his father sometimes made him sleep outside in the doghouse and take baths in ice water."

Cuddy managed to set her fork on the plate before she dropped it. The restaurant seemed to tilt; her stomach felt hollow and legs shaky even though she was sitting down. "Wilson…is that true?"

"I believe it is," he replied solemnly.

She believed it, too. Reaching for her water, she muttered, "Jesus…no wonder he had to be dragged to the funeral."

* * *

"I totally kicked his ass," House gloated, sitting at Cuddy's kitchen table while waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.

"He beat me by five whole points," Wilson clarified to Cuddy. "If I hadn't got that damn split…"

"One point is all it takes, my boy." The diagnostician grinned devilishly. He always looked so damn good when he did that, especially when the grin was a little crooked, like it was right then.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "How long are you going to brag about it now?"

"As long as it takes to drive you insane."

"You already are."

"My point exactly," House said, while taking the cup Cuddy handed him.

"Do you boys have any other plans in the future?" she asked, joining them at the table. "More bowling, perhaps?"

As the two men began to make plans for another bowling date, Cuddy surreptitiously kept an eye on House. She was elated to see he was perfectly relaxed and calm and happy with the two people he cared about most. House hadn't asked where Cuddy was on the day she and Wilson had lunch, and she wasn't about to tell him something he could go the rest of his life not knowing. Laughter and jokes were shared with the best friends. House tossed a few smiles and smoky glances in her direction. This cheerful and carefree House was something she wanted to see more of.

But she knew the bitter, cynical man who had been abused by his father would show up again sooner or later. And she would be there for him when he did.


	5. Chapter 5

After Wilson said his goodbyes, Cuddy took his coffee cup to the sink and rinsed it out as House continued to jabber away. She listened to what he had to say and smiled with him, all the time urging him to keep talking. He was in a grand mood and she wasn't about to discourage it. She had a hard time picturing the upbeat man sitting in her kitchen as a young boy forced to sleep outside as punishment. It happened so long ago yet House spoke about it as if it had happened yesterday. He had tried to dismiss it as no big deal. As if she believed that for a second. Deep down inside Cuddy knew that the painful rejection and even more painful punishments at the hands (and belt) of his father cut deeper than the scar on his leg ever could.

House took his cup to the coffee maker and filled it to the brim, then took the cards from the junk drawer. She stifled a yawn behind her hand. He was still wound up from his evening out with Wilson and wouldn't be ready to come to bed for a few more hours. Cuddy was more than ready to crawl under the covers and hibernate.

"I'm going to call it a night," she said, putting the last few dirty cups and plates in the dishwasher.

House looked up and frowned. "Already?"

"Unlike you, I actually need to sleep every now and then." She shuffled over and planted a kiss on his scruffy chin. "There's some chicken in the fridge if you get hungry. Just be sure to save me some. I'll see you in the morning."

She turned to go but felt a warm hand clamp down on her wrist.

"Not just yet," House quietly said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm tired--"

"Sit out here with me. I need some company."

"Since when?"

"Since now."

"House--"

"One game. Sit out here with me for one game and you can go curl up and dream of me."

Cuddy chuckled and sat down. "What girl could resist that?"

"Not you." House was evidently pleased with himself as he dealt the cards. "You were _awfully_ glad to see me when I got here tonight. Did you miss me that much?"

"I was glad to see you had a nice time with Wilson."

"I did," he answered with a surprising level of affection for his best friend, followed by the weird "bromance" vibe she got whenever House and Wilson spent time together. "You should come with us some time."

"I don't bowl."

"_Hmph_, you're no fun," he snorted. "What did you do around here all night instead of watching me kick Wilson's ass?"

Cuddy drew up her knees to her chest and folded her arms around them. As she watched him place a red queen on a black king, she said, "I got caught up on my laundry and vacuumed."

"Sounds like it was one thrill-a-minute, roller coaster ride, summer fun extravaganza of evening for you."

"It was duller than dishwater; but chores are chores and my laundry won't do itself."

"See, you should have come with us." House set the ace of diamonds aside.

"I wasn't invited," she reminded him. Not that she wouldn't have turned them down with the old "I have work to do" excuse if she had been.

"That never stopped me." He grinned devilishly. "But you did miss me tonight."

She had to admit that she did. "I enjoy spending my evenings with you and I enjoy our conversations."

"So do I." His grin widened at the sight of her blushing. "Knowing that there's someone waiting for me to come home… I haven't had that in quite a while."

"Neither have I," Cuddy said, watching him put another ace aside and shuffle through the deck.

"It's kind of a nifty feeling, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"I never realized how much I missed it until now." He found a red jack and placed it on a black queen.

"House?"

"Hmm?" A slight frown appeared on his face as he shuffled through the deck again. The appropriate cards weren't showing up. His game was nearing the end.

"Did you miss me tonight?"

"You know I did." He sighed and began to gather up the cards on the table. "Game over. Still tired, Cuddy? Can you handle one more game?"

"I need to get some sleep," she said, making sure the regret in her voice reached his ears. She stood up and made a point of pausing and giving him another kiss on her way out. "Good night, House."

"Nighty-night."

She felt his hand around her wrist again. His eyes had that mischievous glint in them, the one that appeared whenever he was feeling frisky. She raised an eyebrow in question and he raised one in return. House didn't need to voice the question he wanted to ask: _What are you going to do about it, Cuddy_? His hold was loose on her, just enough so she would have to slide her hand out, her fingers brushing along his.

As she padded down the hall to the bedroom she heard him chuckling to himself as he dealt another game.


	6. Chapter 6

"Is that a low-cut blouse or are you just happy to see me?" House leered as Cuddy walked down the corridor.

"Right now I'd be happy to see you helping out in the clinic or the ER," she said, and heard the faint tapping of his cane as he followed her to her office. Too much free time on his hands so now he was going to bug her to death just to alleviate the boredom for a few minutes.

"Yeah…right," he snorted.

"They could always use some extra help, House."

"If they need my help, they'll ask for it."

"Will you help them if they do?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Hell no."

Cuddy paused with her hand on the door. "So why are we having this conversation?"

"I started the conversation, you changed the subject. Let's get back on track...I see you brought the twins out to play," House remarked with his trademark smirk, making a show of lowering his gaze down to her chest. "It would be a crime to let their frequent appearances in this hospital go unnoticed."

"House," Cuddy began, lowering her voice, "this is not the time nor the place to drool all over my twins or funbags or love-apples or whatever you're calling them this week."

"If you insist on wearing a Wonder Bra, someone is going to comment on your lovely lady lumps sooner or later. That someone might as well be me. We both know how much I appreciate them."

"I'm not wearing a Wonder Bra."

"Coulda fooled me," he said in a strangely appreciative tone. House's bizarre way of paying her a compliment, though she wasn't yet sure of exactly what the compliment was for. "You don't have to do this anymore, you know."

"Do what?" she puzzled, folding her arms across her stomach.

"Play I-forgot-to-button-my-blouse to get my attention; you already have it." He reached over and played with the collar of her silky pink blouse. "Got some files to work on, Dr. Cuddy?"

"I do, as a matter of fact."

"Mustn't keep the big boss from doing her job. I'll see you later."

"I'll be waiting," she replied with a smile.

He smiled back and said, "I'll be in my office. We wouldn't want some extra hours in the clinic to make me late for our dinner date, would we?"

* * *

"Hey!" Cuddy yelped as she felt his hands slide down her thighs.

"Hey what?"

"Not in front of the stove…I'm trying to cook here!" Why did he always pick the strangest times to feel frisky? she thought while trying to keep an eye on the two chicken breasts sizzling away. "Do you want to set us both on fire?"

"I can't help myself," House murmured into her ear as his restless hands continued to roam. "You look good enough to eat."

"I'm not on the menu."

"Most places will gladly go out of their way to fill a special order for a loyal customer."

With her elbow she nudged him in the ribs just hard enough to make her point. "Go sit back down."

Of course, he didn't take the hint and his hands found their way under her shirt. "I don't want to."

"Dinner's almost ready."

"I don't want that, I want _you_."

"And I'm starving," Cuddy said, slapping his hands away. Not that she minded his rare touchy-feely moods, but there was a time and a place for everything and the kitchen wasn't the best place to screw his brains out, especially five minutes before the food was to be served. "I haven't eaten anything since lunch. The bedroom fun can wait for a while--"

"If we wait too long the clock is going to strike midnight and I'm going to turn back into a pumpkin."

"-- and if you want any fun at all later you'd better let me get something to eat. I'm absolutely famished and I didn't go through the trouble of cooking all this so it can get cold and thrown away."

House sighed and muttered "Killjoy" before slinking back over to the table. She brought over two glasses and a quart of milk. The 'no booze' rule was still in effect and House hadn't broken it since his meltdown in her living room a few weeks earlier. He poured the milk as she loaded up the plates and brought them over. She knew he was watching her move here and there in her tight jeans and oversized tee-shirt made that his mouth water for a completely different reason, a rather carnal reason, but that could wait until later. They certainly needed the energy to keep up with their other appetites.


	7. Chapter 7

He always let her lead him down the hall as if he didn't know the way, her hand gently clutching his as he followed closely behind. None of his usual nonstop banter as they stepped into the bedroom; that was another thing, he was always quiet during their trips down the hall. Not because he had nothing to say, House always did. Maybe he didn't want to spoil the mood by saying the wrong thing.

The lights were off but he knew his way around well enough. She could hear his quickening breath, then felt the heat radiating from him as he stepped closer. Blindly reaching out, her hand came into contact with his bare chest; he'd already shed his shirt. She hadn't heard any rustle of fabric. Even in the dark she could feel the weight of his gaze, those bright blue eyes that noticed everything.

"House?" she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Yes?" He took her arm and guided her to the bed, then sat down beside her.

"What do you see in me?"

She'd expected him to be caught off guard by the question; strangely it was the opposite, like he had been anticipating it all along. No sudden changes in his breathing as he gently brought her hand up to his face, his prickly beard rasping under her palm. He wasn't trying to avoid the question, he was just taking his time answering it.

House replied, "I see a lot of things worth looking at, and that's not just because you wear a lot of low-cut blouses."

"I know."

"I mean that as a compliment."

"You're giving me a compliment?" Cuddy was surprised.

"It sounds like it. You certainly deserve one."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Tell me what you see."

She wanted him to love her, to need her, to spend the rest of his life with her. Being the object of House's affections was certainly an interesting phenomenon, and it was more enjoyable than it had any right to be. Gregory House was undisputed king of misanthropes and wore his contempt for the human race like a suit of armor. He treated almost everyone with equal disdain. What could Cuddy possibly see in that? What could he possibly need or want from her? Would he ever want something that resembled a serious relationship or was he perfectly content with sharing her bed a few nights a week? Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free, as the saying goes. Well, House was as human as the rest of world he despised and every suit of armor had its vulnerable spots. And lets not forget it was House who came to her for some comfort and companionship in the first place. By the time he did just that the vulnerable spot in his armor was a huge gaping hole that needing some mending before it was beyond repair.

"I see someone who isn't afraid of a challenge," he answered.

_Challenge_. An odd but rather apt word to describe House. Cuddy didn't say anything and let him continue.

"You can overlook my rather obvious flaws and see a real human being underneath them. You're not out to fix me…that's what I appreciate the most."

"Why's that?" She was honestly curious.

"It's not a case of 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' so much as it's 'you can't fix what doesn't want to be fixed'."

"You would have bolted a long time ago if I had."

"You got that right."

"You haven't tried to fix me, either."

"You got that right," House repeated. In what little light made into the room she could see that delicious crooked smile. "There's nothing that needs fixing. Now lets see why I chose to stay."

She lay down and felt her breath catch in her throat when he covered her body with his. When she had raised her arms so he could pull off her oversized tee-shirt, all her thoughts, needs, wants, questions were lost in a flurry of sensations as her brain short-circuited and her heart nearly pounded through her chest and his touch lefts trails of fire along her skin. The rest of the world could certainly wait while they took care of some of their more lascivious wants and needs.


	8. Chapter 8

The quiet moments with House, like now, were the ones Cuddy enjoyed the most. She reveled in it as she indulged herself with lightly tracing her fingers up and down his bare chest, enjoying the simple pleasures of his closeness and warmth of his body. Those were the moments when she thought of House as hers and hers alone. Off limits to everyone else. After all, he was in _her_ bed, by _her_ side, with _her_ sheets covering him…well, some of him. Too bad House was sound asleep and missing out on all the attention she was lavishing on him. She didn't wake him up; he would up and around soon enough, keeping his own crazy schedule. For now the sound of his breathing and the feel of his chest rising and falling under her hand was more than enough.

House obviously enjoyed spending time with her, and not just in bed. He had admitted that he had been lonely before…was he taking steps to make sure it wouldn't happen again? They had been having real conversations, not just her talking and him nodding his head every now and then. Slowly but surely he was opening up. But what he really wanted out of their relationship was still a mystery. Would he get bored and stop coming by? Would someone else come along? Would he stay with her? Just what did he want?

* * *

"Are you coming over tonight?" she asked, after finding him in his office, leaning back in his chair and staring off into space.

"No, not tonight," House answered solemnly. His crankiness had been turned up a few notches all day; thankfully there had been no clinic duty. Something was bothering him, but he wasn't ready to talk about it yet.

"You sure?"

"As sure as I'll ever be."

"If you change your mind--"

"I know," he broke in, sounding a bit irritated. "You're here for me and all that jazz."

She straightened up and gave him her best 'in all seriousness' glare. "I am here for you, House."

With more sincerity than necessary, he replied, "I know you are, but I'm planning on getting drunk tonight. Don't wait up, Mommy."

"What's wrong?"

"It has nothing to do with you," House said with a dismissive wave. "Don't worry about it."

"I'm going to anyway."

With the barest hint of a smile, House said, "Be my guest."

"I will," she said, making sure that he felt the weight of her words. "If you need anything, feel free to call me."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Please do," Cuddy said, and left his office.

* * *

At ten o'clock Cuddy was relaxing on her sofa with a fashion magazine in one hand and a cup of hot chocolate in the other. As much as she enjoyed having House over, she also the enjoyed quiet evenings alone that gave her a chance to catch up on her guilty pleasures: fashion and chocolate. She skipped over yet another article about Jennifer Aniston whining about her ex-husband and his current girlfriend and began to look over some of the must-haves for winter.

The phone rang.

She knew who it was without looking at the caller ID.

Before she had a chance to say 'hello', House's raspy voice was asking, "Can you come over?"

"What is it, House?" Cuddy said, hoping like hell he wasn't in any kind of trouble. "Is something wrong?"

"Too many bad memories. I need you to come over."

"What bad memories? How much have you had to drink tonight?"

"Not enough…the memories are still there."

"House, what on earth are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Will you just hurry up and get your ass over here? Or do you feel like playing twenty questions with a drunk guy?"

"Okay…okay…," she began, "I'll be over in a little while."

House said, "Bring something to sleep in. You're staying over here tonight."

"House--"

"Cuddy, it was my dad's birthday today." His voice was as cold and flat as a concrete slab. "Please don't make me beg."

"You know I would never make you do that, House."

"So get off the damn phone already."

"You're keeping me on the phone."

"Not anymore."

_Click._


	9. Chapter 9

"How old would your dad be today?" Cuddy asked, then blew into her cup of hot chocolate.

House looked into his cup like he thought the answer was in there. Steam swirled around his face, almost like fingers gently caressing his scruffy chin. "Seventy-six," he answered. Thankfully he wasn't nearly as drunk as Cuddy feared he was going to be and answered her questions without too much bitching or slurring. "You should wear jeans more often. They show off that cute little ass of yours better than your skirts."

"You didn't ask me to come over so we can talk about what I should wear or how my ass looks wearing it."

"Says you."

She ignored his alcohol-induced leering and asked, "Did he have something special planned? Maybe a little get-together with some family and friends?"

"Not that I knew of. Mom never said anything to me about it if he did." He took a sip of his hot chocolate. "There aren't any little marshmallows in this."

"You don't have any marshmallows. Did you call your mom today?"

"She called me. We had a nice little chat."

"About what?"

"She asked me how I was doing. I said fine. She didn't believe me, then she had to go and remind me that it was his birthday today. I told her I don't care and she knows I don't care and she can stop reminding me about it already. I haven't sent him so much as a card in thirty-five years and I don't think he wants one now."

"Thirty-five years," she contemplated. "That's a long time."

"Not long enough," he grumbled before chugging down half his drink.

"It's rather…specific."

"It should be. That's how many years I've ignored his birthday and he ignored mine."

"Something happened thirty-five years ago today? Something that caused a rift between you and your dad?"

"The rift had been there for years by then," House clarified, setting his cup on the table. "This was the rift that broke the camel's back as far as our birthdays and various other gift giving occasions went."

"What happened?" Cuddy asked quietly.

House sat back and closed his eyes, then sighed heavily. Whatever happened all those years ago was still there like a stone around his neck. He didn't seem to be in a hurry to answer…because he hadn't told anyone about it before, and was weighing the pros and cons of finally spilling his little secret.

"What happened, House?"

Opening his eyes, he looked past the wall and began, "It was my dad's birthday and we were getting ready to have cake and ice cream. Mom was putting the cake on the table and I got out the plates. I handed Dad a plate and managed to knock over my glass of milk in the process. It fell on the floor and shattered to pieces. Well, my dad _lost it_. His face got beet red and he started screaming at me, calling me a clumsy, useless idiot, how could I do such a stupid thing, blah blah blah. It was a goddamn _accident_, the kind of thing every kid does, but that hardly mattered to him. He made me clean it up and then made me sleep on the back porch. It was maybe fifty degrees and pouring down rain. Thank God the back porch had a roof. I slept in that shit and wound up coming down with the flu. For three days I had to sleep sitting up because I so stuffed up I literally couldn't breathe when I was laying down. I wound up missing a week of school and he blamed me for that, too; telling me I got sick because I was such a weak little pussy. He never apologized and I never forgave him. And I never will."

House paused and reached for his cup of cooling hot chocolate. Cuddy sat there in stunned silence, trying to make sense of what she heard, trying to make sense of how anyone could throw such a fit over one broken glass and punish a teenage boy so harshly over it. John House had spent nearly his entire life in the military and obviously brought it home with him every single night, never stopping to think that his family wasn't a batch of green recruits to be turned into soldiers. No wonder the younger House despised authority figures. He didn't want to sleep on the back porch again.

When Cuddy found her voice again, she said, "What did you get him for his birthday?"

He gave her glance filled with curiosity and surprise, but did answer the question. "I got him a card and even signed it 'Love, Greg'. I also got him a book about World War II, bought and paid for with my own money. He was a downright fanatic about World War II. He must have had close to one hundred books about that damn war, literally. Those were fun to pack whenever we moved."

"Those were nice gifts."

"I thought so, too. I mowed lawns in the neighborhood all summer for some spending money and spent a good chunk of it on that fucking book. Dad made damn good and sure I saw that my book and card were in the trash, covered in chocolate frosting and melted ice cream, after he let me come back in the next morning. Needless to say, I never wasted another dime of my money on him ever again."

"I'm sorry, House," Cuddy said after swallowing a lump in her throat.

"Stop being sorry for everything." He sounded almost angry, but his expression softened as he grabbed his cane and pulled himself up. "Come here, I have something to show you."

She got up and followed him over to the piano. He sat down and slid over to make some room for her. She sat, their hips touching, and watched as he shuffled through some sheet music. The notes were all gibberish to her, but House read them as easily as the morning news. The pages were yellowed and had a stale, musty smell to them. When he was satisfied that they were in order, he poised his musician's hands over the keys and began to play, the notes dancing through the air as his fingers flew effortlessly over the eighty-eight keys.

"What do you think?" House asked when he stopped playing about two minutes later.

"Lovely," Cuddy said, and meant it. "You play very well, Dr. House."

"Thanks."

"Who wrote that music?"

"I did."

"Are you serious?" she gaped, hoping her mouth didn't drop open as wide as she thought it did.

"Serious as serious can be."

"It's really good. I had no idea you wrote music." She looked back up at the yellowed pages. "When did you write this?"

"Thirty-five years ago."

Her mouth dropped open for an entirely different reason. House didn't have to say another word but he did anyway.

"I finished this song about a month before my dad's birthday. I was going to play it for him after we had some cake; you know…giving the gift that money can't buy. I just wanted him see that I was good at something, even if it was something he couldn't have cared less about. In a way I'm glad I knocked glass off the table before I had the chance to get my music out or else it would be sitting in a landfill right now, covered with chocolate frosting and ice cream."


	10. Chapter 10

There were several more yellowed pages of House-written songs. As he played them Cuddy noticed there were dates on the upper right corners, all from the early 1970's when House was a teenager. When she asked if there were any more of them he mumbled something about not being able to find them. So she asked him to play the ones he had already found. And he did. Watching him as he played, though still slightly drunk, House became lost in his music. He appeared to be aware of nothing except the piano and notes; he probably wasn't even aware that she was still sitting beside him. Everything else faded away because it didn't matter at that point in time, only the music written by his own hand did.

After a while his leg began to cramp so they moved back to the sofa. She watched with some dismay as he went through the mechanical gesture of getting his pills, as completely unaware of what he was doing as he was unaware of his surroundings at the piano. He stretched his leg out, then leaned back and closed his eyes as he had done earlier. Not because he was tired. He was trying to keep some bad memories at bay.

"Did you ever get to play that music for your father?" Cuddy asked.

"After that night, I wouldn't have played it for him for a million dollars," he answered flatly, not opening his eyes. "I didn't care anymore. He never cared to begin with. I avoided him like the plague after that."

"Did he ever make you sleep outside again?"

"A few times." House offered up a low chuckle. "I don't know if it was because he saw how sick I got or if Mom said something to him, but he never made me sleep out in the cold again. Just in the warm weather so I could be eaten alive by the mosquitoes instead coming down with the flu. Could've been worse, I suppose."

Yes, it could have. Curling up closer to him, Cuddy asked, "What did you two do for your birthdays after that?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I want to know. You wanted me to come over, House. You wanted someone to talk to."

"True. To answer your question: Nothing much. We never got each other gifts again. We never so much as said 'Happy Birthday' to each other again. Mom would make his favorite meal on his birthday, make mine on my birthday. There would be cake but no candles. We'd sit at the table and eat while Dad blathered on about his day. Not once did ever speak directly to me except to get another fork or get the milk back out of the fridge. Mom would sometimes ask me about what was going on with school or lacrosse practice. He never listened to my answers and sometimes interrupted me when I was talking to Mom. She chewed him out royally once for interrupting me and he never did it again. Fuck you, Dad. And…that was about it. At least Mom could cook and the cake was always good."

"Why didn't your Mom stop it, House?"

"She couldn't," he said sadly. "She did get him to back off every now and then, but she just couldn't stop it completely. Not for lack of trying. When I left home at seventeen I said a long goodbye to her, tears and all. I walked right by my dad without saying a word. He didn't even look up from the newspaper he was reading. We didn't speak again for at least five years." House sighed. "I really wish Mom hadn't reminded me it was his birthday today."

"Did you ever try to reconnect with him?"

"No."

Cuddy already knew the answer but asked anyway, "Did you want to?"

"Fuck no." House turned to face her and scowled. "Cuddy, I don't think there was ever a connection between us. There wasn't anything to reconnect. We could barely be called father and son. To me, he was just a bully who liked to throw his weight around. To him, I was a just a nuisance who needed to smacked around every now and then to be reminded who was in charge."

"But you still call him 'Dad'," she puzzled, taking his hand. She noticed him glance down at their entwined fingers like it something he wasn't expecting. "You still refer to him as your father."

"Well, technically he _was, _but that didn't mean either of us had to like it." House gave another low chuckle that didn't have an ounce of humor in it. "For a while I called him by his first name, but he got pissy about it and by then I just wanted him to leave me alone, so I called him 'Dad' to make him shut up. I still called him 'John' a few times when I was mad at him."

"He never came to see if you were alright after the infarction," Cuddy said. It wasn't a question.

"Nope."

"Did that bother you?"

"No. It would have bothered me if he had. He would have blamed me for it and told me what a weak little pussy because I was for screaming in pain." He squeezed her hand hard enough to make the bones grind. "When I was a kid the only thing I ever wanted was for him to say he was proud of me, to say I was doing a good job. Just once. But that was asking for too much." He pinched the bridge of his nose as if to fight off a building headache. "I've said enough and I'm tired."

"House."

"What?"

"I know it's taken a lot for you to open up to me," she said, gently turning his face towards her until they were eye to eye.

"It has," he agreed. "You came right over after I called you. You brought something to sleep in. I suppose it will take a lot more than that before I finally ask too much of you."


	11. Chapter 11

Even though she was in his apartment at his request, Cuddy couldn't help but feel she trespassing when she stepped into his bedroom. This was _his_ place, the place where he hid from the world when it got to be too much. Who was she to just waltz in the door and stomp all over that? Not so fast…she was an invited guest and House didn't so much as bat an eyelash when she walked through the bedroom door.

His bed was enormous compared to her old queen-sized mattress at home and it took seemingly forever to get close enough to rest her head on his chest. A smile crept across her face when she felt his arm around her back. He wanted her there. She wasn't intruding on anything.

"Of all the big beds you had to get this one." she said, noting that he didn't seem to be in a hurry to turn out the light.

"Lots of room to stretch my leg out," House muttered in response. Indeed, his right leg was stretched out as far as possible, his foot hanging off the edge of the bed. "I'd still need lots of room even if my leg wasn't hacked to shit. I'm six-foot-three; I need more sleeping space than you shorter people."

She was on his left side and had very little chance of accidentally hurting him, yet she found herself telling him, "Let me know if you need me to move."

"If I shove you off the bed, it's because you're taking up too much room. Until then, you're just fine where you are."

"Good." She inched a bit closer. "You're quite comfy and I don't feel like moving."

"Comfy, am I?" House sounded rather amused by the thought. "I've never heard that one before. I guess I'll take it as a compliment."

"It is one."

"I didn't scare you off by digging up my past, I guess I should compliment you for having a high tolerance for that sort of thing."

"Why should I be scared off?" Cuddy was a bit surprised by his statement. "They're just memories now, House. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"They're _my_ memories, Cuddy," he replied. "Of course _you_ shouldn't be afraid of them."

"I'm not."

"I can see that. But are you afraid of yours?"

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I think it's time to have a little chat about _your_ memories."

"My memories?" Cuddy puzzled. "_Now_?"

"Nobody makes it through childhood unscathed," House declared stoically. "I opened myself up to you about the son of a bitch who was my father. Now it's your turn to open up to me."

"About what?"

"Something that still stings many years later."

"House," Cuddy began, wondering just what the hell he wanted, "my father didn't abuse me."

Turning over to face her, he said, "I know he didn't. But like I said, nobody makes it through their childhood unscathed, not without at least a few emotional scars. They may have faded over time, but they're still there. Honesty is a two-way street, Cuddy. I've been very honest with you tonight, told you things I've never told anyone before. I think I've earned a little honesty from you in return."

He had earned it, but why did he want to compare emotional scars? To see whose ran deeper? He had her beat by a mile.

As if sensing her reluctance, House spoke up with, "One story. Someone out there cut you off at the knees at least once in your life. It's time to get it off your chest. It's just a memory now."

She didn't how House triggered the memory, but it came flooding back in all its humiliating glory. Strangely it had happened more or less thirty years earlier, not all that long after the birthday blowup with the House family. Seeing the harsh fluorescent lights, the puke green carpet, and battered school desks, Cuddy said, "Fifth grade. I was standing at the blackboard in front of the class."

"What for? Were you in trouble?"

"No, nothing like that. We were doing our 'math drills'. Two of us were called up and we would see who could shout out the answer first. The winner stayed up there while the loser sat down and a new person was called up. The trick was to see who could stay up there the longest. The winner got a new pencil."

"Sounds like tons of fun," House snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Exactly," Cuddy drolled. "Then the teacher called on a boy to come up and stand beside me for next drill."

"Let me guess--he was the one who cut you off at the knees."

After a few beats, Cuddy answered, "Yes."

"What was his name?"

"Charlie Walsh, and I'll never forget or forgive him."

"Why's that?"

She continued with, "Because when he was called to come up to the blackboard with me, he plastered this look of mock horror across his face and yelled out, 'I don't want stand up there with the dog!' I swear he was loud enough to hear out on the playground."

"Ouch," House muttered.

"Damn straight." With a resigned sigh, she flopped on her back and stared past the eggshell-white ceiling. "It wasn't what he said that really bothered me, it was the way he said it. There was such a condescending sneer in his voice…Christ, the little shit got a kick out of humiliating me in front of the entire class. He laughed about it with his friends for weeks afterward. He knew exactly what he was doing and didn't care in the least."

"What did the teacher do?"

"Nothing. Just told him to shut his trap and get up there. He wouldn't stand next me, he stood as far away as possible from the dog and didn't even try to answer the question so he could go back to his desk and snicker away like an idiot." She sighed again. "To this day I don't know why he singled me out like that."

"He struck at random, like a tornado. You just happened to be the right trailer park at the wrong time. What happened after that?"

"I was called a dog and barked at for a while until the kids got bored with it and moved on to something else. It was the first time something like that had happened to me, and boy, did it ever hurt. I buried myself in my school work so I wouldn't dwell on it too much and tried to avoid Charlie and his troglodyte friends for the rest of the year. Thank God he moved away that summer. Sixth grade was a hell of a lot quieter, I can tell you that."

From the corner of her eye she could see House reach over, then felt his fingers trace lightly down her cheek.

"Thanks for your honesty," he said.

"House?"

"Hmm?"

Reaching up to take his hand, she asked, "How do you know I'm being honest?"

Without hesitation, he answered, "When you were telling that story you weren't here with me, you were that fifth grader standing up at the chalkboard again. Lies just don't bring out the sting of being humiliated, do they?"

"No, they don't," Cuddy agreed.

A faint smile ghosted across House's face. "Did you win the pencil?"

"Yes, I did," she remembered, and felt herself grinning. "I won more than a few of them that year."

"Always too damn smart for your own good. Did Charlie Walsh ever win one?"

"I don't think he did."

"Because you were too busy winning them all."

"That's right," Cuddy said, then laughed.


	12. Chapter 12

There were two medical journals and one motorcycle magazine open on the coffee table. All published in the last month or two and all looked as if they had been at least skimmed through. Another pile of older magazines occupied the other end of the table. Cuddy noticed that one of the newer medical journals had a bookmark in it--an article about an epidemic of sleeping sickness in Uganda. Something right up House's alley, Cuddy thought as she put the journal back where she found it.

His apartment was pretty much how she pictured it--piled with books, DVDs and his various video games. One shelf was weighed down with his ridiculously huge DVD collection. No surprise that nearly half of it was collections of his soaps going all the way back to the early 80's. She thought about asking him where his rather bizarre obsession for them came from, but she was afraid he would tell her the truth and she would end up regretting it. Some things are better left unexplained. Dirty dishes in the sink aside, she had to admit the apartment was cleaner and more organized than she had expected. Either House cleaned as much as his leg would allow or he had a cleaning service on retainer. Definitely the latter. Judging by the thin film of dust on the bookshelves, House hadn't called for them to give his apartment the spic-n-span treatment for a while now. Probably because he's had other things on his mind. Like Wilson. Like his father. Like her.

She padded to the kitchen, listening to his faint snoring coming from the bedroom. There was still plenty of time to run home and get changed, but she didn't feel like leaving just yet. It had been a long time since she had a leisurely morning to herself and now was as good a time to take advantage of it as any. Even if that leisurely morning was in someone else's home. Steam was pouring from the kettle. Time to sit and enjoy a blistering hot cup of java. In a little while she'd start to get some breakfast ready. Hopefully House wasn't as lazy about buying groceries as he was about doing the dishes.

* * *

"You should stay over more often," House remarked, dunking a corner of toast into his coffee.

Cuddy wasn't sure if he was serious or not, so she replied with a vague, "We'll see."

"I really don't mind…and I really wouldn't mind if you stayed over again tonight."

Her scalp prickling, Cuddy blinked at the man sitting across the table. He let her visit his private domain and now he's inviting her back? Was House becoming clingy? No, not clingy, just…she didn't know. His out-of-nowhere remark hadn't yet reached the part of her brain to find the right word to describe him. "If all goes well today, I'll be happy to come over again tonight," she said.

"Good." House seemed genuinely pleased. "I'll even have dinner ready. What do you like on your pizza?"

Cuddy laughed. "You call having grease on a crispy crust delivered in 30 minutes or less making dinner?"

"I said I'd have it ready, not that I was making it. Do you like pepperoni?"

"Pepperoni is fine. Anything but those nasty anchovies."

"No problem." He dipped his last piece of toast . "There's something I forgot to ask you last night…about Charlie Walsh."

She scowled and began to gather up the dishes. "Ask away."

"How many people said he was just teasing you because he liked you?"

"Good God," she moaned and rolled her eyes so hard they felt like they were going to fall out of her skull. "That's exactly what my parents and homeroom teacher said. Everyone else told me 'boys will be boys' or 'just ignore it and he'll stop'. Heaven forbid somebody actually step up to the plate to do something about Charlie Walsh and his bullshit."

"I take it you didn't believe he really liked you for a second."

"Hell, no. If Charlie Walsh was that mean to me because he liked me, I'd hate to see what he would have done if he had truly hated my guts. There's a fine line between good-natured teasing and abuse; Charlie took a huge flying leap over that line the second he opened his mouth. He was just a mean-spirited creep. I saw his family car drive by, loaded down with suitcases and stuff, the day they moved away. I can't even begin to tell you how happy I was to see that car turn the corner and disappear forever. It was only about two weeks into summer vacation and the little shit was gone for good. I walked down to the ice cream shop and used up the rest of my allowance to buy myself the biggest sundae on the menu to celebrate. It was the best summer vacation ever."

She took the dishes to the sink and rinsed them off. She knew House was watching her every move.

"Where do you think he is now?" House asked.

"I don't know and I don't care." She hoped the words didn't come out much more bitterly than she intended.

"Any more Charlie Walsh clones during your school years?"

"A few."

"Were they teasing you because they liked you?"

"No."

"Did they ever stop if you ignored them?"

"They didn't stop so much as they usually found a new target. One or two grew out of it and actually turned into decent people. One idiot finally crossed the line and I had to do something about it."

"You gave him a taste of his own medicine?"

"More like rammed it down his throat until he choked on it."

House let out a short laugh and leaned forward in his chair. "There is no way you are _not_ telling that story."

Grinning, she made him wait as she poured herself another cup of coffee and brought it to the table. "It was high school. Junior year if I remember correctly," she began, sitting down. "There was this idiot named Steve. He was on the football team. He did nothing but warm the bench, but still thought he was all that and a bag of chips because he was on the team. You know that stereotype about dumb jocks? Smart jocks everywhere have Steve to thank for that. Anyway, he kept bugging me to go out with him."

"Dumb jocks aren't your thing, Cuddy?"

"He was a big, dumb, obnoxiously sexist clod who only wanted to get into my pants. And he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. I told him to leave me alone least a dozen times, but he wouldn't quit. Then one morning I was getting my books out of my locker and a cheerleader came up and asked if it was true that Steve and I had gotten drunk and screwed in the back of his car the night before, and that all it took was a few beers for me to spread my legs."

"Ooooooo…," House noised. "That was a low blow."

"Tell me about it," Cuddy agreed with a faint chuckle. "That was exactly the sort of thing a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal like Steve would do. I knew he had sent the cheerleader over so she could go running back to tell him my reaction; I was supposed get all upset and outraged and he would feed off it like a leech feeds off blood. Charlie Walsh all over again, except Charlie never went around telling everyone I was a beer-guzzling whore. That's where Steve crossed the line. That's when I decided I wasn't going to get mad, I was going to get even."

House grinned. "And you did."

"It was time to hit him where it hurt. I told the cheerleader that Steve was so small he could barely find it with both hands and a flashlight." Cuddy had to pause for a minute after House choked on his coffee. "I told her that he only wanted to go out with me to make sure he was straight, and that he couldn't get it up even after looking through all the bondage and gay porno mags in his car. The best part was I said it all with a somber, straight face. The cheerleader ate it up. I could hear her laughing all the way down the hall as she ran off to squeal to anyone with two ears. It spread like wildfire, and by lunch Steve was yelling at everyone to shut up already. He never said another word to me again. He couldn't even look me in the eye again after that. It was beautiful."

After he could stop laughing, House said, "I wish I could have seen that." He sounded like he meant it. "Steve learned his lesson."

"Yes, he did. Anything he could do, I could do better. I'm not the least bit sorry Steve had to learn that lesson the hard way."


	13. Chapter 13

"Am I interrupting something?" Wilson asked, peeking at Cuddy through the front door. "If it's not a good time, I can come back--"

"Not at all," Cuddy broke in, looking slightly bemused. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no…everything's fine. Care if I join you two for a while?"

"That's not up to me," she replied, and nodded in the general direction the sofa and the top of House's graying head. One of his stupefying soaps was in the DVD player and she certainly wouldn't mind a break from it. "Ask His Royal Highness over there, if you can tear him away from amnesiac heiresses and their evil twins for five minutes."

"Is that another damn salesman?" House's voice echoed through the apartment. "Whatever you're selling, I ain't buying!"

"It's just me," the oncologist called out.

"Are you selling Avon now, Wilson? Frosted pink really isn't my color."

Wilson held up a six-pack, even though House couldn't see it. "I brought beer and I won't charge you for it. It would be great to have someone to share this with. I'm sure one of us can think of reason to drink it."

"Does he really have beer?"

"Yes, he does," the Dean of Medicine said.

"More than one can?"

"Yes."

"Why the hell didn't you guys say so? Get his sorry ass in here!"

Cuddy matched Wilson's ear-to-ear grin as he stepped into the apartment and peeled off his coat. "You still owe me a bowling rematch," he said.

"And you still owe me a beer," House laconically replied.

The oncologist lazily tossed his coat on the back of the sofa. "I'm going to win this time!"

"And I'm going to toss you through the window if you don't give me a damn beer." House wasn't too happy when he saw the lone six-pack. "Is that all? Is that light beer? Oh, yuck. I might as well drink some mineral water; I'll probably get more of a buzz from it."

Wilson smirked. "I only said that brought beer, not that I brought _a lot _of beer. There is more than one can there, in case you have lost your ability to count."

"He knows how greet his guests, doesn't he?" Cuddy said to Wilson, declining the can he held out for her before taking a seat next to House. "I made him finish up his clinic duty today so he's a just a bit cranky."

"He's always cranky. The day he isn't cranky is the day we all need to check for pods in the closets."

"Ha ha, so funny," House said. "You're possessed by the spirit of George Carlin. You should give up your practice and start touring the nightclubs. HBO will be banging on your door in no time."

"Sure, whatever you say." Wilson shook his head in that I-give-up sort of way.

The diagnostician narrowed his eyes at his friend. "What brings you by, besides an extra six-pack?"

Wilson plopped down at the other end of the sofa and replied, "No patient emergencies, and I didn't feel like sitting at home alone all night. I was in the mood for some company. Is that so wrong?"

"Not yet. But I do have to say that you better bring more than one lousy six-pack if you're going to crash at my place." House chugged down the rest of his beer while waiting for an answer.

"I'm not crashing, I'm visiting. If I wanted to crash here I would have brought two bottles of vodka and some orange juice." Wilson looked at his blue-eyed friend. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No."

Turning his attention to Cuddy, the oncologist asked, "Is he this snarky with you?"

"He has his moments," she had to confess.

"Yes, I most certainly do," House agreed, snaking his free hand around her waist.

Cuddy glanced up to see a warm smile spread across Wilson's face, then she knew. He hadn't come over because he to kill a few hours with his friends, at least that wasn't the only reason. The beer had just been part of his elaborate charade. Wilson would have to be blind and deaf to not notice the small but genuine changes in his best friend and wanted to see the real deal for himself. Unlike his rather short visit to her home the week before, he was planning on sticking around for a couple of hours to see what House was like around her. He wanted to see the positive effect she had on him.

"But he knows the consequences if he doesn't behave," she said, playfully batting his hand away.

Wilson finished his beer and reached for a second. "Do I want to know what they are, or is that…private?"

House made a over-dramatic show of leaning back onto the cushions and said, "Have her tell you the story of Steve the football player and what happened when he rubbed her the wrong way. Oh, and try not to fall of the couch when she's finished."


	14. Chapter 14

To his credit, House waited until Wilson was outside and well out of earshot before declaring, "I thought he would never leave!"

"House, he wasn't here that long and the night is still young." Cuddy said, throwing the deadbolt. Truth be told, she was also a bit relieved that Wilson had decided to call it a night. Now she and House could still have a little alone time before it got to be too late.

"He could have at least brought _two_ six-packs."

"House!"

"Or maybe some burgers. And fries. And a chocolate shake."

"Burgers and pizza?" she questioned. "Are you trying to make yourself sick on purpose?"

"Will it get me out of clinic duty?"

"Not in this lifetime." Cuddy walked back over and resumed her place by his side. "Is that all Wilson is to you, your own personal snack machine?"

"Of course not. He's my ATM, too. I owe my motorcycle to his deep pockets and his inability to say 'no' to me," House told her blithely. "He brought the beer just to mollify me, you know."

"What for?"

He met her eyes and said, "The fact that I can see right through him and he knows it, but that won't stop him from being my self-appointed caretaker. He wasn't here because he was oh-so-lonely, he was here to make sure I'm being well taken care of. Didn't you see the way he was looking at us?"

"No," she lied.

"Hmph," he snorted. "He would have taken notes if he thought he could get away with it."

"So you're saying he was here to spy on us?"

"Basically. We should look around to see if he managed to plant a few hidden cameras when we weren't looking." Far from being irritated with Wilson's 'spying', House seemed to be rather pleased with himself and the elaborate yarn he was spinning.

She said, "House, you do realize that's completely absurd."

"Is it? He was especially interested when you had your hand on my knee. I swear his eyes nearly popped out of his skull."

She hadn't noticed that. "Or he could have just wanted to spend some time with us," Cuddy said, trying to get him off the subject. She didn't need him spending the rest of the night analyzing every aspect of Wilson's visit to death.

"He should have taken pictures. They last longer." He snaked his arm around her waist again. This time she did nothing to discourage him. "Now that Captain Caretaker has the left the building, whatever shall we do?"

Snuggling closer, she asked, "What were we doing before he showed up?"

"Watching one of my soaps."

Damn, that was it. It had involved some heiress with no memory and some sleazeball trying get his grimy paws on her money. It was as clichéd, woodenly acted, and ridiculous as it sounded. Deciding to take the risk, she asked him what was so appealing about them. Maybe clearing up the mystery would let her enjoy them a tiny bit more.

"I've been watching them forever and it's like visiting old friends," he explained. "It's good, stupid fun."

"Fun?" she questioned. "House, some of these storylines involve murder, rape, kidnapping and blackmail."

"Don't they all?"

"How can that be good, stupid _fun_?"

"It's melodramatic, overblown, cheeseball fun. It makes me happy. It takes me back to better times. Is that so bad?" He looked at her expectantly, almost daring her to say so.

"Of course not." Then she realized what he had said: _It takes me back to better times. _Really? Why was that? "But how did a guy like you get hooked on soaps in the first place?"

"My mother. No matter where we moved, she had to watch her soaps. She had them on constantly, catching up on all the dirt and juicy plot twists before Dad got home. One summer it poured down rain for like nearly a week straight. I was bored out of my skull, watched some of them with her and got sucked in. Mom explained who was who, the plots, and which character was hiding all the dirty little secrets and why. The rest is history."

"What did your dad say?" she had to ask.

"Dad didn't know, and as far as I know he never did. Mom swore me to secrecy."

Better times, indeed, Cuddy thought. House and his mother bonding over silly soap operas. House soaking up the love from her he could never get from his father. Mother and son bonding in a way the father couldn't and wouldn't understand. House had every right to hang on to those memories of the rainy summer afternoons. They were probably some of the best memories of his childhood he had.

"You going to watch them or what?" she asked.

Grabbing the remote, House pushed play, then draped an arm over her shoulders. She leaned into him and watched the drama unfold on the television. It was still as corny as ever, but she could live with it.


	15. Chapter 15

Soon all the inane dialogue and mediocre plot twists began to run together; Cuddy felt herself drifting off. The last thing she was aware of was that she was in his arms and how it felt so right.

"I think it's past your bedtime."

"What?" Her eyes flew open, and she had to blink away the fuzziness. House's soaps had been replaced with the local news. "What is it? Where--"

"You fell asleep."

"I did?"

"Cuddy, your snoring was drowning out the television. Go to bed."

"I don't snore," she muttered. But House was right about one thing, she needed to hit the hay.

She met his blue eyes; normally she would describe them as icy or electric, but there was something else behind them at that moment. It was warmth, heat given off from twin blue flames. A crooked grin pulled at the corner of his mouth and she swore the fire in his eyes flickered for half a second, as if disturbed by a breeze.

"Says you," House replied teasingly. "Are you going to sit there and argue with me about it or are you going to go lie down before you fall down?"

"I'm going…I'm going…" She paused before standing up. "What about you?"

"I'll be there in a while."

"A while?" Cuddy frowned. "I can't wait that long. Come with me."

"No can do," he said with more than a trace of regret.

"Please?" She hoped the shameless pleading in her voice would persuade him, just once.

It didn't. "I won't be too long. Now scoot."

Reluctantly, she nodded and got up.

After dragging her tired, heavy body to the bedroom to change, then dragging it to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face, she dragged herself back to the bedroom and flopped into bed with a sigh of relief. Then she turned over and looked at House's side of the bed. Too empty. Too big. The sheets were too cool without his warm body underneath them. She wanted him in there with her. She wanted to be in his arms again. Unfortunately his insomnia wasn't going to let him until it was damn good and ready, not one second sooner.

* * *

Tap tap tap. What was that noise? She blinked once, twice. Nothing to see in the dark. Nothing to do but listen to the faint tap of his cane and the creak of the floorboards as he made his way down the hall to the bathroom. The toilet flushing, then running water. The familiar rattle of his Vicodin bottle as he took the last pill of the night. More taps and creaks coming closer to the bedroom. The rustle of denim as he began to take off his jeans.

"Hurry up," she said impatiently.

A few beats of silence, then the rustle of denim resumed as House asked, "Have you been waiting all this time?"

"I woke up when you were walking to the bathroom." She watched his shadowy figure sit on the edge of the bed, making the task of sliding his jeans off without causing too much discomfort in his bad thigh a bit easier.

"I didn't realize I walked that loudly." He sounded more than a bit amused at the thought as he haphazardly tossed his clothes in the general direction of the hamper. "Maybe I should look into getting a quieter cane."

"You walk softly and carry a big stick," she told him, "and you didn't wake me up. I just happened to wake up when you were walking by."

Limping over and pulling the covers back, he said, "Just happening to wake up is too mundane for my liking. The idea of you waiting up for me sounds better to my ears."

"Why's that?"

"It makes me feel a little more welcome and a little less alone."

That statement was one Cuddy couldn't wrap her head around. "You don't feel welcome in your own bed?"

She had to wait until he lifted his leg onto the bed, made himself comfortable and pulled the covers back up before he answered her question. "My bed isn't always the most welcome place to be, especially for me. Before I ran into you at that coffee shop, I had been spending too many miserable nights all alone in this very bed. Thanks to the insomnia and the pain, there are maybe two or three times a month I get a decent amount of sleep. But now, knowing that there is someone who wants to see me the next day...that can make even the worst nights a little more bearable. I suppose it's safe to say that I like having a reason to get up in the morning now, no matter how bad things get the night before. I can't remember the last time I had a reason to wake up at all."

"What about your patients? Your cases?"

"Those are excuses, not reasons. There is a difference and I hope you can see that."

"All too clearly." Cuddy reached for him, wrapping her limbs around him like a vine, his chest as her pillow. Listening to his heartbeat, she told him, "When I came to bed tonight all I could think of was how lonely it is in here without you."

"I'm here with you now."

"I know. I'm glad you are."

Running his hand up and down her back, House said, "Having a reason to wake up in the morning…it's nice, isn't it?"


	16. Chapter 16

"No," Cuddy said solemnly. "It's too dangerous."

"My patient is _dying_." House was wound up and ready blow at any moment. "I need to look in her brain."

"You have no evidence that the problem is there. Just a hunch. That's not enough for me to give you the go ahead to cut off the top of her skull."

"My hunches are usually right. I'm telling you the problem is there."

"What is the problem?"

"I'll know it when I see it."

"No, House," she told him quietly and curtly. "Not until you know for sure."

"I need to open her skull so I can know for sure!" His face was flushed pink with frustration, and his hand was gripping the cane so hard Cuddy was afraid he was going to rip the handle off. "The answer is there, I just need to find it!"

She knew his hunches were more often right than wrong. But she also knew the risks outweighed the benefits in this case. "You need a hell of a lot more than a hunch, House. I can't let you do this and you damn well know I can't let you."

His voice was ice when he told her, "You're making a mistake."

"You're wasting your time arguing with me. I've made my decision. Your patient needs you, and you need to go back and see if what you overlooked." She held his gaze and let him know she meant business. "If you still believe she needs the surgery, you need to bring me rock-solid proof. Nothing less. Until that moment happens, you are _not_ ripping her head apart to look for something that may or may not be there."

House turned to leave and muttered, "You're wrong" just loud enough for her to hear.

"So prove it."

House didn't say anything, he didn't have the last word. She watched as he left her office without looking back.

* * *

She had been waiting for him for nearly two hours. She opened the door slowly and carefully to avoid looking too eager.

"Did you enjoy making that scene in my office this morning?" she asked as he stepped into her home.

He peeled off his jacket and tossed it on the sofa before he said, "If I wanted to make a scene, I would have made one and posted it on YouTube. We had a difference of opinion, that's all."

"Not hardly. Literally wanting to mess with someone else's head isn't an opinion. You wanted to have your way, and had to restrain yourself from throwing a fit when you didn't. You enjoy creating conflict."

"I enjoy doing what is right for my patient. If I have to create some conflict with a few hard-heads, then so be it."

Ignoring his last comment, Cuddy asked, "How is she?"

"She's fine for now. You know that." He turned and deliberately loomed over her. Cuddy stood her ground, toe to toe with him. "I know you keep extra-diligent tabs on me. I know you try and snoop around every move I make in your precious hospital."

Reaching up to brush her fingers against his scruffy chin, Cuddy said, "Keeping up with you is part of my job. If I didn't you'd be in surgery with your patient's skull flipped open like a tin can. Someone has to rein you in every now and then. Someone has to say 'no' to you and your ridiculous demands, whether you like it or not."

With a lopsided grin, he asked, "Do you really think you can keep the reins on me forever?"

"You know I can," she replied, slipping her arms around his waist, under his shirt. "You like the fact that I'm willing to challenge you." With that she began to push him toward the sofa. "Arguing with someone who is just going to wilt under your first slightly harsh words is no fun, is it?"

"I have to say it isn't. Kind of defeats the point of arguing."

Another push, taking care to not be too rough and push him off balance, and Cuddy said, "You like a good challenge."

"Can't say I have too many of those."

His legs hit the edge of the sofa, and Cuddy let him sink into the cushions. She noted his slightly confused expression and committed it to memory. He obviously had no idea what he was getting into when he knocked on her door. This was the moment she had been waiting for since he had slunk out of her office that morning.

"Exactly," she agreed, and straddled his lap. His expression was now one of all-out bewilderment. She relished it, dove head-first into it. How the tables had turned and how she was in control and how House had no idea what to do with that or himself.

House began to sputter out, "Cuddy, what…I--"

"Ssshh." She put a finger to his lips and leaned in so close their noses were nearly touching. "This is exactly what you think it is. Do you want me to stop? Yes or no."

He shook his head. No.

"Can we agree to a truce and have a little fun in the process?"

A single nod. Yes. His breathing was picking up. She could see his pulse trying to pound through his neck. His pupils were dilated.

Cuddy asked, "Do you mind if the reins remain in my hands?"

"No," House answered hoarsely, impatiently pulling the hem of her blouse out of her narrow black skirt.

"I didn't think so."

Seizing his face with her hands, her own pulse racing, she crushed their mouths together. A faint groan from House, then his hands were swarming up under her blouse and up her back, unhooking her bra. The ticking of the clock on the mantle faded. The colors of the room muted, then disappeared. House and his mouth and hands and skin and glorious madness were the only things she was aware of, the only things that mattered.


	17. Chapter 17

She dozed with him for a while, then stayed with him since there was no reason for her to get up at the moment. She wished she could spend the rest of the night with her head tucked under his chin, his arm around her back, and his heat covering her the way no blanket could. But he would be up and around soon enough. This little nap all but guaranteed he would spend half the night watching some war documentary or playing solitaire.

The sofa had proved too uncomfortable for House, so they had moved the festivities to the bedroom; stumbling, tripping over each other and clumsily removing their clothes along the way. Cuddy was sure a few items of their wardrobes were still in the hallway. Like breadcrumbs, she thought and nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity of it.

Some inner alarm told her it was time to get up. Slowly and carefully she lifted his arm and slid out from underneath it. He didn't move, no hitch in his breathing. As quietly as possible she shuffled to the dresser, pulled on some sweats and a t-shirt, then shuffled over to the bedroom door and flipped on the hallway light. Her shoes, her blouse and House's button-down shirt were strewn about, as far down as the bathroom. Grinning, she picked them up and carried them back to the bedroom. House was still sound asleep. Cuddy put her things away, then found the rest of his clothes and draped them across the foot of the bed so he wouldn't have to go on a scavenger hunt to find them. One last check to make sure his cane was within easy reach, then she left him to his dreams.

Out in the kitchen she made three chicken salad sandwiches: one for her and two for House. The two for him went back into the fridge. She brought her sandwich, a glass of milk, and deck of cards to the table. She dealt herself a game of solitaire in between bites of the sandwich.

Half an hour later he came limping into the kitchen, looking rumpled and sensuous even with his t-shirt inside-out. The Rolling Stones logo looked like a pink blob sucking on his chest.

"You need a new mattress," he muttered with a mischievous grin as he joined her at the table.

"Why do you say that?" she asked, gathering up the cards after another losing game. "What's the matter with the old one?"

"I thought I heard some springs break in between your declarations of lust for me."

"I'm pretty sure the neighbors will say we were screaming too loud for anybody to hear anything else."

"You think?"

"I don't think, I _know_."

"You're probably right. I'm surprised the damn bed frame didn't collapse." He sounded almost serious.

"It better not collapse. The warranty has expired by now."

"It will be all your fault if it does, you know. I don't think my leg would be too forgiving if it really did. Save the cartwheels and acrobatics for when you join the circus."

Resting her chin on her hand, she said, "Judging from your decibel level earlier this evening, you were rather impressed with my acrobatic skills."

"True. All you need now is a trapeze and we'd have the perfect reason to never leave the house again," he said, then glanced at his t-shirt and noticed it wasn't quite right. His expression went purposely blank as he peeled it off . While righting it, his eye was caught by the plate at her elbow. "You got any more of whatever you had there?"

"I knew you'd be hungry, so I made some extra just for you." Getting up, she caught a glimpse of House grinning from ear to ear as his shirt went back on.

"You were thinking of me," he drolled as she opened the fridge.

"You could say that." Of course she thought of him. Every second of every day. She couldn't get him out of her head. Even a good scrubbing with bleach and a Brillo pad wouldn't make his mark on her fade. She thought about pointing that out but held her tongue. "I was thinking there would be a hungry man in my kitchen later, so I'd better be prepared."

"Planning ahead."

"I made a few extra sandwiches," she said. "It's no big deal."

"So you say. An acrobat, Dean of Medicine, and maker of fine sandwiches. A woman of many talents. Is there anything you can't do, Cuddy?"

Unwrapping the sandwiches, she answered, "Not yet." House was really laying it on thick. That usually meant he was in a particularly good mood. And right then he had every reason to be.

"You don't mind me eating all your food."

"I can't let you starve." The sandwiches were brought to the table, then she went to get the milk. "You need all the energy you can get."

"Energy for what?"

Smiling, she answered, "Today, tomorrow, the day after that. I'm not done with you by a long shot."


	18. Chapter 18

"House?"

"Hmmm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"You're asking for my permission…it must be serious." He didn't take his eyes off the dessert in front of him as he went on: "I'd say 'no', but you'll still ask anyway. So knock yourself out."

"Have you ever wanted a family?"

He looked up then, suspicious, and the remaining bite of his ice cream slipped off his spoon and into the bowl with a splat. "Do you mean 'family' in a _Leave It to Beaver _kind of way? Me playing husband to the dutiful _hausfrau _who spends all day baking cookies instead doing something useful and a couple of mop-topped runny-nosed kidbots?"

Cuddy sat back and said, "I wouldn't necessarily put it that way. Have you ever wanted a wife and kids?"

"No," he answered, almost before she had finished asking her question.

"Why not?"

"I'll give you three guesses as to why not, and the first two don't count." He spooned the last bit of rocky road ice cream into his mouth, then shoved the chocolate-drenched bowl in her direction. "As Nancy Mitford said, 'I love children, especially when they cry, for then someone takes them away.' I hope you didn't have your heart set on having a happy little family with me, Cuddy, because that's never going to happen. Not in a million years. We have a good thing going here…let's not ruin it by trying to turn me into something I'm not."

"I know better than to ask that from you," she said coolly. Asking House to settle down and morph into Ward Cleaver would be the quickest way to send him screaming into the streets, and that's the last thing in the world either of them wanted. "And I know why you wouldn't want to get married now. But did you ever want to get married before the infarction?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Everything I know about marriage I learned from watching my parents," he announced stonily, then chugged down the last of his milk.

"Your parents were married for fifty years," she reminded him. "Surely there are some good memories in there somewhere. Did your father not do one kind thing for your mother in all that time?"

"He always bought her roses for her birthday and Valentine's day--"

"See!"

"--only because he'd never hear the end of it if he didn't."

"House--"

"It's the truth, Cuddy. Being stuck with my father for fifty years is nothing to celebrate. Both of us know the truth sometimes stings. I like to think you're much too smart to still believe in fairytale endings."

"A girl can always dream." She decided now was not the time to press it, and changed the focus of the subject. "How come you never wanted kids?"

"Everything I know about fatherhood I learned from watching the prick who called himself my dad."

She reached over and took his hand, hoping he found some comfort in it. "You are not your father, House."

"Maybe, maybe not." He looked over at her. The smile that whispered across his scruffy face didn't touch the sadness in his eyes. At that moment he wasn't a world famous doctor, he was the lonely boy who wanted to please his father, just once. Just once. "But I couldn't take the chance of being just as bad in a completely different way, if not worse."

He had every reason to feel the way he did, but that didn't stop Cuddy from wanting to shake him and scream that he was a good person. Why couldn't he see that? Why did he see only his flaws when he looked in the mirror? Didn't he see anything good in his reflection?

Swallowing her frustration with him, and squeezing his hand, she asked quietly, "Do you regret your decision?"

"Which decision, marriage or kids?"

"Either. Both."

"No regrets." The smile faded. So afraid of losing the one good thing he had that he wouldn't trade up for something bigger and maybe better, because he was convinced he would end up with a lemon. "My bastard of a father regretted having me, and I can't risk returning the favor with some other poor kid whose only crime was being born. I create enough chaos in the world already. Just imagine what a younger version of me could do. That thought alone should send any sensible woman running for the hills."

Cuddy said, "If I had any sense at all I wouldn't have hired you to terrorize my hospital, I wouldn't have let you set foot in my home, and I wouldn't let you sleep with me in my bed."

"I know." House rubbed his thumb along the soft, warm palm of her hand. "Lucky me. I still don't believe in fairytales, but maybe the happy ending hasn't been ripped out of the book of my life."


	19. Chapter 19

After revealing the reasons why he would never wish a wife and kids on himself, House didn't say much for the rest of the evening. He would do that--shut off the talking like shutting off a faucet. Sometimes the abrupt transition of House babbling a mile a minute to complete and utter silence could be rather jarring. Admittedly, it could drive her nuts, but she remembered what revealing bits and pieces of himself was like for House and learned to take in stride. He wasn't going to change his lifetime habit of keeping his feelings bottled up overnight. She suspected that the 'shutting off the talking' and 'keeping things bottled up' processes were sometimes beyond House's control, so ingrained they were automatic.

She pretended to be asleep, not moving a muscle as she listened to him walk into the bedroom. A faint tap as the cane was left leaning against the night table, then the slightly annoyed grunt as he lifted his leg onto the bed. Stirring of the sheets and a dip of the mattress as he climbed in. Then her favorite part when House spooned up behind her, wrapped his arm around her waist, and made her pillow his own.

* * *

"Don't turn your wrist," Wilson said.

"What?" Cuddy looked over at him while waiting for the ugly puke green ball to return. She had knocked down only one pin and was beyond pissed.

"You're turning your wrist and it's adding a spin to the ball you don't want. That's why it's veering off course at the last second."

"What do you mean?"

Wilson demonstrated, turning his wrist like he was turning his car key in the ignition. "Pretend your arm is in a splint and keep your wrist straight. Aim just a bit off-center and you should be able to knock the rest of the pins down."

"Are you just trying to get me to throw a gutter ball?"

"Trust me, Cuddy," Wilson reassured her. "Just keep your wrist straight. That'll help a tremendous amount."

"Stop giving her helpful hints," House teased his friend.

Wilson turned to the diagnostician and said, "I'm only helping her out because _you_ apparently can't be bothered. Why aren't you helping her out?"

"Yeah, why aren't you helping me out?" Cuddy asked as the green ball rolled to her.

"You hurl the big ball with holes in it toward the pins and try to knock them all down," House offered. "What else is there to say? This isn't exactly rocket science."

"I haven't bowled in 20 years!" she reminded him. "Forgive me for a being a bit rusty."

"Five Hail Mary's, two Hello Dolly's and you're forgiven, my child," House said. "Now bowl already."

"What House is really trying to say is that he's not helping you out because he wants to win," the oncologist declared.

Cuddy shook her head as walked up to the line. Typical House. Everything was a contest he had to win.

She had been shocked when Wilson and House invited her along. She had been prepared to spend the evening with a glass of wine and her fashion magazines while waiting for House to come bursting through door while gloating about handing Wilson's ass to him or grousing about he _lost_ and how _unfair_ it all was and Wilson must have _cheated_. If the latter happened she'd have to remind him of how wonderful still he was and shamelessly stroke his ego until the sting of losing his precious game lifted. Her half-hearted decline to their invitation was no match for their enthusiastic insistence that she was more than welcome to join them, and Cuddy had dashed off to change into jeans and pull her hair into a ponytail, ready to bowl for the first time since college.

Now she was staring down the alley, eyeing the nine remaining pins. The toes of the silly bowling shoes, or clown shoes as she thought of them since they were always too wide for her narrow feet, were on the line. This was their warm-up; House and Wilson were going to do battle after this game was over while she cheered them on. 10-pound ball in hand, pretending her arm was splinted with a good, strong piece of wood, she stepped forward, swung her arm and released the ball, her wrist never moving. The ball sailed down the alley in a perfectly straight line, knocking down eight of the nine remaining pins. A vast improvement, but she still couldn't help but frown at the result. This game was lost before it barely started. She knew House was smirking before she slunk over to reclaim her seat while Wilson took his turn.

"You'll bowl a strike before the night is done," House said as she sat down.

Watching Wilson step up to the line, she replied, "Probably not. I'm surprised I even knocked down as many as I did."

"You should come with us more often. Brush up on your game."

"I never had a game," she said, then turned to face him. The despair House went through when his best friend had declared they had never been friends to begin with was still fresh in her memory. That declaration had been mercifully short-lived, but still enough to send House into a nuclear meltdown in her living room. With that in mind she added, "I don't want to intrude on the time you spend with Wilson."

"I've news for you, Dr. Cuddy, it was Wilson's idea to invite you along."

That was a surprise. "What for?"

"Keeping an eye on us," House answered, more than amused as he watched Wilson take out eight pins. "Making sure you're still treating me like royalty."

"You shouldn't be treated any other way," she told him, playfully scratching her fingers under his chin.

"Neither should you."

Easily knocking down the last two pins, Wilson grinned broadly. "Eat my dust, House!"

"Well, I just lost," Cuddy sighed.

"That's right, to _me_," the diagnostician declared, standing up.

House took his place up at the line, threw his jet-black bowling ball down the alley, and proceeded to demolish all ten pins.


	20. Chapter 20

"You want some coffee?" Cuddy asked as House shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the back of the sofa.

"Not now," he answered, limping into the kitchen and getting the deck of cards out of the drawer. It was better than drinking himself into a coma and caused a lot fewer headaches. "Wanna play?"

She shook her head and took her new huge green mug out of the cabinet. The thing was big enough for a family of goldfish to live in.

House had beaten Wilson by ten points and was in a grand mood. He was also wound up to the point of jumping out of his skin. Thus the cards. Whenever he spent the night at her place he often played solitaire to unwind, and it worked out well for both of them. She didn't have to worry about him getting drunk and he had a more or less positive way to spend his free time. The last thing either of them needed was him bouncing off the walls for the rest of the night; she knew it would still be hours before he went to bed.

As she poured her steaming mug she heard him say, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you had a blast tonight."

Smiling, she replied, "Yes, I did. So did you." More than once she had caught him grinning like a fool when she had been cheering him on.

"That I did." He set an ace aside and resumed shuffling through the cards. "You did get a strike like I said you would."

Cuddy had a feeling House was just as pleased with his prediction of her bowling a strike coming true as he was with her getting the strike itself. Joining him at the table, she said, "One strike. You two still clobbered me."

"But you did get a strike. Not too shabby for someone so rusty."

"I can't complain about the strike." Steam from her coffee cup danced and swirled over the table. "But I also got two splits."

"It happens."

"Yeah, it does."

He glanced up and blue met blue. She could see the genuine affection in them, and felt a thrill shiver down her spine.

"I'm glad I tagged along tonight," she said.

" Me too. Tagging along next week?"

"No, thanks. I'll tag along again, but not for a while."

"Why not?" House asked, sounding a bit disappointed by her answer. A black ten was moved to a red jack.

"You and Wilson don't need me intruding on your fun, and I don't need Wilson to keep an eye on us to make sure you are being treated like the king you are."

House laughed. "King, huh? I like the sound of that."

"It suits you."

"It most certainly does. You may call me Your Majesty from now on."

"I'll continue to call you House and you will like it."

"Spoil sport. Sure you don't want to tag along with us, my Queen?"

After taking a sip of coffee, she said, "I'm sure. You two have fun. Bowl a strike for me."

"I will," he said, turning over a red queen.

* * *

"Don't...don't…"

"House?"

She blinked in the darkness, hearing what could only be called a whimper come from his side of the bed. As her eyes adjusted, and with the soft glow of the alarm clock, she could see him curled up like a shrimp and clinging to his pillow for dear life. Touching his shoulder, she discovered he was trembling as if the room was freezing.

"Dad, _please_…" he pleaded.

"House, it's okay--"

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

"House, it's okay. Calm down, just calm down…ssshhhhh…"

She ran her fingers through his hair, now damp with sweat, and continued to whisper in his ear. He rolled over into her arms, still declaring he was sorry to his father and even mumbled an apology to her, not that she knew what the hell he was apologizing for. Eventually her words filtered through to the half-sleeping doctor and his pleas for forgiveness that were falling on deaf ears tapered off and he slipped back into a deep slumber, replacing his pillow with her as his own personal life-preserver. As she listened to his slow, deep breaths, Cuddy hoped it wasn't too cold on the back porch.


	21. Chapter 21

"What's on the agenda for today?" House muttered, dumping another heaping spoonful of brown sugar into his bowl of oatmeal. He seemed to be talking just to say something rather than genuine interest in her day to day duties, of which he had none. She hoped some sugar and caffeine would boot him up a bit.

"The usual," she replied, buttering an English muffin. "Meetings, files--"

"Don't have too much fun."

"--keeping you reined in."

"If you ever manage to rein me in, please let me know."

"I've already reined you in. You're in my bed, aren't you?"

"Screwing my brains out and keeping me from wreaking havoc on your precious hospital are two entirely different things. A little havoc never hurt anyone; it breaks the monotony of the day. But you don't really seem to mind as long as I'm in your bed at night. I don't mind, either. It works out well for both of us."

"It does," she had to agree. "What happens if I ever manage to rein you in for good?"

"I can't answer that," he answered stoically.

"Gregory House doesn't have an answer? That's astonishing," she teased. "Why can't you answer that?"

"Because you can't rein me," he explained. "You can put a few roadblocks in my way, but you can't stop me. It's not going to happen. Trying to stop me is like standing in front of an EF5 tornado and politely asking it to not be so destructive. There's a method to my madness and you know it. You count on it. In my line of work thinking outside the box isn't optional, it's a necessity. If I have to cause a little collateral damage…well, that's the price we all pay. I'm sure there are a few former patients of mine who would say their lives are worth more than an invoice from the carpet cleaners."

She grinned. House logic at its best. "You explain things with the same madness you diagnose with, House."

"That's why they pay me the big bucks," he said. His oatmeal was now buried under a mountain of brown sugar, melting into sticky pools. "I deserve a raise."

"I'll think about it."

"Like hell you will."

She watched him plow into his breakfast and eat with gusto, apparently not agitated with anything or anyone at the moment. Conversation with an agitated House was like pulling teeth; one-word answers were the most she could hope for until he got fed up and stopped talking altogether. That morning he had initiated the conversation, rather reluctantly, but now he was fully awake and still going strong. She was more than happy to talk with him.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked blithely.

"Fine." He glanced up, a hint of suspicion in his eyes. "Should I not be?"

"You were talking in your sleep last night."

"So? Was I saying that I wasn't going to be fine in the morning? Should I be sick now? Can I have the day off?"

"No."

"_Damn_."

"You were mumbling. I couldn't understand you," she lied. "But you sounded upset."

"I'm not upset now," he pointed out.

"No, you're not. I'm glad to see that."

"So what's with the mother hen routine?"

"I just don't want you to be upset about whatever you were dreaming about. You sounded afraid, House." She nibbled on the crispy edge of her muffin.

"I have no idea what I did dream about last night, so it must not be worth remembering." He didn't know how right he was. Pouring some milk into his breakfast, he added, "I'll be just fine, Mommy. I promise to eat all my lunch, do my homework and not stay up past my bedtime."

No memories of what his father had punished for last night. Great news if she had ever heard it. The real memories were certainly bad enough; who knows how long he had been reliving it in his sleep. Who knows how many bad dreams he had remembered over the years.

"Come by my place tonight," he spoke up.

"What do you have planned?"

"A surprise."

"A surprise?" She beamed. "What is it?"

"I can't tell you, it's a surprise."

"Can't you give me a hint?" Cuddy pleaded.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"Okay…okay…I get the hint," she chuckled. "This surprise better be worth it, that's all I have to say."

He reached over and tilted her chin up until blue locked on blue. "And all I have to say is that if my Queen treats me like the King that I am, I just may let her reign over me for the evening."


	22. Chapter 22

Thankfully there was enough going on during the day to keep Cuddy distracted. During the one or two lulls in her schedule she kept wondering what House had in store for her that evening. A surprise. Just what did Gregory House consider a surprise? Was this some sort of prank? No…he knew better than to build this all up only to pull the rug out from under her. House was crazy but he wasn't stupid. There was something up his sleeve and he was going to take his sweet time pulling it out. Whatever he had planned, it better be worth all the wondering, she thought as she made sure he was finishing up his hours in the clinic.

Of course, a few last minute emergencies kept at the hospital nearly an hour after she was supposed to leave. Her signature was needed on this set of papers five minutes ago, a relative of another patient was causing a scene and security had to be called. The relative, who had decided that having tequila as the main course, side dish and dessert was a wonderful idea, was escorted to a taxi. By the time she was able to put on her coat and switch off the light in her office, she felt as if she were crawling out of the trenches. House was long gone. She checked his office just to be sure. Dark and empty. He was at his apartment with a surprise for her.

"There you are," he said as she walked in. "Late night at the office?"

"Just all the usual last minute fires to put out," Cuddy replied, hanging up her coat. "It comes with the job."

"Last minute emergencies popping up at a hospital. Who would have thought?"

"Really, how rude," she joked. "I'm the lucky person who gets to deal with them. Sometimes it's like they're waiting for me to leave, then they pull their sneak attack."

"Paranoid much?"

"How does that saying go--just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me?"

"We'll, you're here now." House sounded pleased with that fact. "The fires are out. Take off your shoes and stay awhile."

"Thanks." She took his advice and kicked her shoes off, watching them fly across the room. That earned a huge gale of hearty laughter from House. Too bad she didn't hear that more often.

She saw the drink in his hand and asked for one. Then she looked in his eyes and saw something she had never seen before. It was nervousness. House was nervous. Whatever he had planned, it appeared to mean a lot to him and he didn't want to screw it all up. Things were getting more intriguing by the second. Now she was getting nervous. Playing it cool as she didn't want him having aneurysm right then and there, she simply followed him over to the piano where a bottle of bourbon and an extra glass for her waited.

House took a seat while she remained standing and poured herself a drink. "Have you been playing all night?" she asked.

"On and off. I've been putting some old pages of sheet music back in order."

"How old is old?"

"Going back thirty-something years or so." House inched over a bit, then patted the seat beside him. "Sit down. We're going to be here for a while."

Taking her seat, she said, "At the piano? Do you have anything for dinner?"

"I've got some of the finest take-out on speed dial," he answered, shuffling through the papers until he found what he wanted. "Are you hungry?"

"I can wait."

"Good," he said, then pointed to the sheet music. "I haven't written any music for a long time. I just don't have the patience or the drive it takes anymore. But I've kept everything I wrote in the past."

Thoughts of what he had said about his music ending up in a landfill as a result of his father's wrath filled her head. House was very protective of the things he owned. Losing his music, especially music penned with his own hand, would have been devastating.

House tapped the facing page and went on, "This here, I wrote it in high school for a girl I had a crush on."

"Did she ever get to hear it?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because her hulking wrestler boyfriend threatened to pound me into the pavement if I even so much as looked at her again. He was four inches taller, fifty pounds heavier and captain of the championship wrestling team. The guy was built like a brick wall. So were all his friends. I decided it wasn't worth getting my spine snapped in half. So it has sat in a box for the last few decades."

Puzzled, Cuddy asked, "Why did you get it out again?"

He turned to her and answered, "I found it when I was looking through the boxes to show you that music I was going to play for my dad's birthday. I had forgotten all about this…then I remembered the name of the girl I wrote it for."

"What was it?"

"Lisa."

Though it felt as if the bottom dropped out of her side of the bench, Cuddy remained sitting upright.

"Lisa Jones is long gone, but Lisa Cuddy is here to stay." House's voice was nervous and halting, like he was struggling to find the right words. "I wasn't sure what to do with this; when I finally did I wasn't sure it would go over so well. But all I can do is hope you'll appreciate it a lot more than the wrestler's girlfriend ever would have, so I'm giving this song to you, if you want it."

It was almost surreal…Cuddy had to resist the urge to pinch herself to make sure this wasn't some kind of weird dream. A thirty-year-old song written by House for someone who never had the chance to appreciate his musical talent. A thirty-year-old song that had been sitting in a box, waiting to be found again--much like House himself, waiting found again and dusted off and appreciated for what he was. A thirty-year-old song that was hers for the taking. She looked at House and noted the complete sincerity in his eyes. Who was she to snub this gift? Not that she could even if she wanted to.

"This is the nicest thing anyone has ever given me," she said, then crushed her mouth against his in a long, deep kiss that left her struggling for breath.

After catching his own breath, House broke into his trademark knowing grin and said, "You're welcome."

"I don't know what to say…"

"How about 'play the damn song already, House?'"

"Yes!" she cried. "Play the damn song, House!"


	23. Chapter 23

Cuddy gathered up the empty take-out containers, leaving behind the Pepsi and the few remaining egg rolls for House. Back in the living room she saw that he had resumed his place at the piano, bringing his drink and snacks with him.

They had been there for half the night already, going through all his old sheet music as House played whatever happened to catch his eye. House seemed ready to go through it all a second time or even a third. When she had looked at the time and saw that _hours_ had gone by, she thought for sure the clock had to be wrong.

He almost never glanced up when he was playing, Cuddy noticed. This was where House shut out the noise from rest of the world. She watched as he tuned out everything except the music, losing himself in it. He didn't miss a beat when she sat down next him; he probably didn't even realize she was in the same room. Only the notes he was playing existed at the moment. The look on his face--a set mask of concentration and calmness--spoke volumes. This was House's solace, his refuge. A place where he found peace and comfort. No screaming fathers or demanding patients or a boss to say _no_ to his demands for a risky surgery that might not give him the answers he wanted.

* * *

"A used song? That was his big surprise?" Wilson questioned. "That's so romantic…or maybe not."

"It's not a used song," Cuddy explained, dropping into her chair and stuffing her purse into the bottom desk drawer. "He never got a chance to play it. It's an old song that has been sitting around waiting to be played, so it's never been used. I thought it was very sweet of him."

"A song he wrote it for someone else," Wilson insisted on pointing out, much to her chagrin.

"Of course he wrote it for someone else. It was written years before we even met. How could he have possibly written it for me?"

Wilson still looked skeptical. "You have no problem with this?"

Cuddy spread her hands. "A problem with _what_? That he did something nice for me? That he gave me a song written with his own hand?"

"You don't mind getting something meant for someone else?"

"No, I don't mind at all. Not one bit. Why do _you_?" she asked pointedly.

He dodged her question and said, "It was still meant for someone else."

"Someone else who never got it." She paused to turn on her computer. "It's mine now and I'm not giving it up for anything or anybody."

"What if he wants you to give it back?"

"Wilson," Cuddy began, getting exasperated with the third degree, "you're missing the big picture and the even bigger picture."

"And what would those be?" he asked, taking a seat.

"He could have lied and told me that he sat down the night before and wrote that song just for me," she replied, absently tapping her nails against the desk blotter. "But he didn't. He told me exactly where it come from and that he wanted me to have it because he knew I'd appreciate it. How could I say no to that?"

"I could," Wilson smirked.

"Good thing you're not me," she said blithely, "otherwise he would have kicked your sorry ass into the next time zone. And now for the bigger picture--"

"Which is?"

"Which is that he's trying. He's trying to be nice. He's starting to come out his shell. He trusts me. He likes me. He talks to me and opens up to me. When he gave me that song he knew I wouldn't laugh at him or throw it back in his face. If he thought for a second I would, that song would still be buried in a box and would never see the light of day."

With immense satisfaction she watched as the smirk on Wilson's face collapsed as the bigger picture finally swam into focus.

"Yes…well…," the oncologist stammered, "he's lucky to have you."

"I like to think so." She rested her chin on her hands and let herself feel smug, knowing House would have done the same thing.

"How's he doing?" Wilson asked.

"Very well, thank you. Not that you don't know…keeping an eye on us and all that." She gave him a small, knowing grin. "He saw right through your little charade."

"Isn't that what friends do, keep an eye on each other?"

"I suppose."

"You say he's been talking to you?"

"Yes, he has. It's not like he pours his heart out every night and sometimes he just doesn't want to talk at all, but he's getting better about it. I think he enjoys having someone around to talk to and who will listen. The loneliness was really starting to get to him."

"He's been talking up to you about his past, about his father?"

"Here and there. He doesn't really like to talk about it and I can see why, but he has told a me a few things." Cuddy scowled at the memory of a drunk House asking her to come over so he could toss some skeletons out of his closet. "His father made him sleep on the back porch in the cold as punishment. Did he ever tell you that?"

"He mentioned it once," the oncologist replied flatly.

She debated over telling Wilson anything else, and decided to keep the details vague. Wilson knew well enough not to blab, but it was better for both of them to be on the safe side. "House had a nightmare about his father the other night. He kept saying he was sorry and was begging his father to stop doing…whatever he was doing. I never thought I would hear House sound that scared. It was terrible to listen to."

"I can imagine."

"Believe me, you don't want to."

"Neither do you, but you will anyway." Wilson replied, giving her his own diminutive, knowing grin.

"Oh, I will. No need to worry about that," she said with complete confidence. "He and I will eventually forget the nightmares. This song will always be here for him to play for me."


	24. Chapter 24

"The son of a bitch is dead, but he's still hurting me," House said sadly.

"House, how can he possibly hurt you now?"

"He can and he is. His words hurt more than the belt ever did."

He was using the Gregory House method of taking the long way to say what exactly was bothering him. There was a box at his feet. It looked like one of the many boxes kept his old papers and sheet music in. He must have found whatever was upsetting him in it. Now he was waiting for the right moment to show it to her. He was also using the Gregory House method of numbing himself with bourbon. Cuddy planned on letting him have one more before taking the bottle away. Until then she sat quietly in his living room and let him speak his mind.

"The older I got the more he played mind games and used the verbal attacks," he went on. "I was already taller than him by the time I hit puberty. I could shrug off a few smacks with a belt by then. So my prick of a father started using methods that were a little more twisted. That's when sleeping outside and not talking to me for the summer started. A real man can handle a little cold weather…that's what he used to tell me when he saw me shivering outside. Maybe if I didn't play the stupid piano like a little queer I could take the cold…I heard _that_ more than once. Then he'd smack me with the belt a few times anyway just to remind me who was in charge."

Cuddy watched him pour another drink. When he finished she moved the bottle to the other end of the table. He eyed the bottle like a cat in a window watching a bird outside but didn't protest.

"I know what you're thinking. You want to ask why I didn't just leave," he said. She had been thinking about how good it would feel to smash John House's face in, but decided not to interrupt House with that thought. "There's no one definite reason. I hadn't grown a spine yet. I had no money and nowhere else to go. I couldn't leave my mother. I thought I deserved the abuse and that I was a weak little pussy who would never make it out in the real world."

"You know better than to think like that."

"When you have it coming at you with both barrels from your own father every single day, you start to believe it."

"You don't believe that now."

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't. I took up sports so I'd have something to do after school and not have to go straight home. When I discovered I had a knack for lacrosse I realized I wasn't the pussy that bastard said I was, that I had the potential to do something with myself. Too bad I had wait until I was accepted at Michigan before I could get the hell away from him."

"Did your dad ever try to contact you at Michigan?"

"No. I wouldn't have talked to him even if he had. Like I told you before, we didn't speak for at least five years after I left home."

House reached for the bottle. Cuddy pushed his hand away. He scowled at her but didn't move from his place on the sofa, just finished what was left of his bourbon.

Cuddy asked, "How did you two end up speaking again after five years?"

"He called me at Christmas, or rather Mom made him call me. We talked for maybe twenty seconds. He asked me how I was doing, mumbled a half-assed 'Merry Christmas' and put Mom on. Mom and I talked for nearly an hour."

House gave the box a quick look as if contemplating whether to open it or not. It was only a matter of time before the internal switch shut him down for the night, but he wasn't quite ready to share whatever was in it. Whatever it was, it had been enough to get him on the phone and ask her to come over again. She glanced at the box, then back at him and noticed a trace of dark humor coloring his eyes.

"He lived his life by following orders," House said with more than a hint of mirth. "He never questioned his superiors about anything, not once. Just did what he was told. I got to where I am, for better or for worse, by questioning everything, by making my own rules and doing things my way. I don't know what drove him more crazy: the fact that I made it out in the real world on my own or the fact that I made it by doing everything he wasn't allowed to do." He reached down and opened the box, pulling out a bundle of papers. "I hadn't looked in this box for who knows how long. I was looking to see if there was anymore sheet music in here. Some of the pages were stuck together…and that's probably why this has been buried for so long. It was between the stuck pages and I never noticed it."

"Noticed what?" Cuddy puzzled.

There was a folded piece of notebook paper a bit larger than a Post-it note in his hand. House held it out to her.

She took it and opened it, immediately noticing the textbook neat printing in black ink. Handwriting that did not match House's indecipherable scrawl.

_It's a good thing you're going to college out of state so I don't have to be embarrassed by my pathetic excuse of a son anymore. Don't even think you can come crawling back home after you flunk out._

"I would have lived in a cardboard box before going back home to live under his roof again," the diagnostician said even before she had finished reading the note. "But he seemed to think otherwise."

Cuddy was shocked. "Why would he leave something like this for you to find?"

"Because he knew it would upset me. Because he knew he couldn't get away with saying it to my face when Mom was right there saying her teary goodbyes to me. Because he could."

"But you didn't find this until tonight."

"Nope. But somewhere out there that son of a bitch is laughing his ass off at me."

She frowned. "Why?"

Taking the note back, House replied, "Because even in death he still gets in the last word."


	25. Chapter 25

"House, you have proven your father wrong a hundred times over. You have made something of yourself. You are the best at what you do."

"Am I?" House asked warily.

Cuddy said, "You know you are."

"If you say so." He sounded anything but convinced.

"Why is this stupid note bothering you so much? It doesn't mean anything now."

"Because he couldn't have timed better if he tried," the diagnostician explained. "Every time I had something to be proud of, like good grades or winning a game, he would rip it all out from under me any way he could. If I brought home straight A's, he would ask why I couldn't have done that before. If my team won a game, he would point out that we had never won a state championship and we all needed to try harder. When he overheard me telling Mom that I wanted to go college to be a doctor, he told me not to bother because I would never get in and I would be lucky to make minimum wage while pumping gas for the rest of my life. And now this fucking note of his…" With his good leg House sent the box skidding across the room. "Just when I have something in my life to look forward to everyday, something to feel good about, this goddamn thing has to surface and remind me how much of a failure I really am--"

"House!"

The bits and pieces of his past were more than enough to let Cuddy see where his insecurities came from and how deeply they were rooted. Whatever House accomplished, he would always hear his father's voice telling him it wasn't good enough. And no matter what House accomplished, some part of him would still believe whatever his father told him.

It was time to get his mind off his delusions of inadequacy.

Cuddy tugged his arm. "House, will you play my song for me?"

House didn't move, and for a moment Cuddy thought he was going to sit there and wallow in his misery for the rest of the night. Then he looked her in the eye and she could see the relief in them, the relief that the opportunity to forget his father for a while was right there waiting for him.

They got up and walked to the piano. As House shuffled through the papers looking for the sheet music, Cuddy asked, "Your family moved around a lot, right? All over the world?"

"Yeah."

"How did you manage to track down a piano teacher?"

"We didn't. My mother taught me to play," he replied, setting the sheet music in front of him and launching into Cuddy's song.

When he finished, she remarked, "I could listen to that all day."

"What the lady wants, the lady gets," House said with a tiny smile and played the song again.

After finishing, he asked her to get the Pepsi from the fridge. As she walked to the kitchen House played her song yet again and she chuckled to herself as she got the soda and two glasses. Steering the conversation in a different direction and getting House to play his beloved music was the right thing to do. Back at the piano, she poured the drinks and asked, "How did you end up getting piano lessons?"

"I'm an only child, so it was me or nothing," he answered, then took his drink. " When I around seven or so Mom said she wanted to teach me to play, and that's what she did."

Cuddy tried to picture House as a little boy, but couldn't make the image stick. "What did your seven-year-old self have to say about that?"

"I whined about it at first, of course, but we eventually struck a deal--I would give it five lessons and if I could quit if I didn't like it," he answered. He was sounding more relaxed and at ease. The tension from earlier was draining away.

"You didn't quit."

"It was pretty obvious I had a knack for the piano after the third lesson or so. I took to it rather quickly and was surprised by how much I liked playing. By the time I was nine Mom would have me play for her friends if I happened to be there when they stopped in for a visit."

"That didn't bother you, having your Mom show you off like that?"

"Why should it? They always gave me a standing ovation and smothered me with praise for being so gosh-darn cute and talented." House smiled at the memory. "Plus Mom would always give me some cookies after I played for them. That was a trade-off any nine-year-old could live with."

"I'm glad your Mom took the time to teach you how to play," Cuddy said, taking a sip of her Pepsi, feeling the bubbles tickle her nose.

"So am I."

House played her song again, and played through all his sheet music for the rest of the evening. Through every song Cuddy wondered why if House ever heard his mother's voice when he was away from the piano, and why his father's voice always had to drown it out if he did.


	26. Chapter 26

There were no bad dreams for the moment. House was sleeping peacefully, not moving a muscle, his head tucked under her chin. Cuddy's eyes were closed, but she was far from asleep. All she could see was the look on his face when he handed her the note he had found in his sheet music--House had taken his father's final sucker punch right on the chin.

House had been doing a lot of digging since his father's funeral. Digging in the dirt with his bare hands, unearthing things that were better off staying buried, scraping his hands raw in the process. It was no wonder he sometimes had to numb the pain with too much alcohol. The note from his father that had been waiting for 30 years to be found…what else was waiting in House's old papers? Would he be able to take being blindsided again if he did find something else, something worse?

The man in her thoughts grunted softly, and Cuddy's eyes flew open as she listened for him to beg his father to stop whatever punishment he was dishing out. She was fully prepared to whisper soothing words and help him come back down to earth, no matter how long it took. Thankfully that never came to be and House slept on in the quiet of the bedroom. She found herself wondering how many times he had woken up in a blind, sweaty panic trying to escape his father's wrath, then immediately pushed the thought out of her mind. Mulling over that wasn't going to help either of them at all.

Cuddy closed her eyes again, and finally let herself relax. House grunted again. She slipped her fingers through his coarse hair, glad that he had been able to fall asleep at all. Getting him to the piano and away from the bad memories had helped immensely. Playing his music always helped his bad moods and tonight was no exception. He didn't mention his father again for the rest of the evening, and by the time he was ready to call it a night he still had something resembling a smile on his face.

Maybe it's time to bury his father again…for good this time, she thought as felt herself drifting away.

* * *

"Thanks," House said.

Cuddy turned and looked at him, confused. His breakfast was still cooking on the stove and he had brought his own cup of coffee to the table. "Thanks for what?"

"Listening."

"Listening to what?"

"Everything."

"Would you mind elaborating on what 'everything' means?"

"All the bullshit I've been spouting about my father lately."

"You don't have to thank me for that."

"I'm going to anyway, whether you like it or not."

His intense blue eyes cut across the filtered morning light in the kitchen and right into her. Cuddy had to turn back to the eggs and bacon sizzling away before his gaze swallowed her whole. "Well…you're welcome, I guess."

"For a while I was afraid I would scare you off. I'm not very good at this sort of thing and have been dumping it all on you--"

"House, you don't have to apologize for anything."

"I know, but I'm going to anyway, whether you like it or not." He was quiet for a minute before saying, "If my father were here right now, he'd tell you that I'm no good."

"You think he'd really say that?" Cuddy asked, flipping the eggs over and putting bread in the toaster.

"You saw the note," House replied stonily. "You know damn good and well he'd say that; but he wouldn't phrase it as politely as I just did."

"I have to agree with you on that."

"Would you agree with my father?"

"I never met him."

"But you've seen what he can do. You're making breakfast for his son. We've known each other for over 20 years now, and you've of all people should know what an unforgiving prick I can be. Like father, like son. So if my dad were to walk in right now and tell you I'm no good, what would you say?"

She slipped the eggs and bacon onto a plate, and opened the toaster. "I would say that I know you're no good, and I'm not much better." She made him wait until she brought the plate to the table before finishing with, "Then I would tell him where he could shove his advice and throw him out the door."

House snickered to himself while mashing up his eggs. "Great minds do think alike."

Cuddy grinned as she poured herself a bowl of Cornflakes. "You think I have a great mind?"

"Any woman who can put up with me for 20 years is either a certified genius or patently insane. The nice men with white coats haven't hauled you away yet, so I'm forced to assume it's the former."

Another one of his weird compliments, but she would take them where she could get them. "Thank you, House."

"You're welcome. I'm going to shamelessly flatter you, whether you like it or not. Now sit down and eat your breakfast."


	27. Chapter 27

"Mind if I join you?" Cuddy asked. Wilson was already moving his chair to give her room, while House pushed his can of soda out of the way.

"The big boss is always welcome to sit wherever she wants in her hospital," House said blithely. "As I was saying, she has this scarlet red bra and panty set that just drives me wild--"

"House!" Cuddy could feel the blush rising in her cheeks, probably matching the fictional lingerie House was drooling over. But she did briefly wonder how he would react to the real thing, and made a mental note to check the Victoria's Secret website when she got a chance.

Wilson tried, and failed, to keep from laughing as he said, "Actually, we were hoping that the weather would warm up soon."

"_You_ were hoping the weather would warm up," the diagnostician chimed in. "The coming Spring thaw will bring a flood of idiots to the clinic to go along with the April showers and May flowers."

"Not all people are idiots, House," the Dean of Medicine said, dribbling Italian dressing on her salad. "People are smarter than you give them credit for."

"No, they're stupider than you give them credit for."

"That's not true."

House narrowed his eyes at her and replied, "A _person _can be smart. Even I can admit that. _People_ in general are just fucking stupid. Two hours of clinic duty would make even Gandhi renounce his nonviolent ways and get medieval on their asses."

"What about you?"

"I'm smarter than the average person," House said without a hint of irony, "therefore that makes me smarter than people in general."

"What about me?" she asked.

The older man raised an eyebrow. "What about you?"

Cuddy leaned over to Wilson and said, "He told me this morning that I have a great mind" and swore she heard the thump when Wilson's jaw hit the table.

The oncologist gaped. "Are you kidding me?"

"Not at all," Cuddy said, and speared a cherry tomato.

Wilson turned his attention back to his friend. "Are you kidding me?" he repeated.

"Nope," answered House, winking slyly at his lover before turning to steal more fries from Wilson's plate. "I find that complimenting the ladies works wonders, especially when I want to get laid."

* * *

"I think you scared Wilson today," Cuddy said, looking down at him.

They were on his bed. She was propped up on her elbow, her coral colored blouse untucked from her skirt, her shoes on the floor. Lounging on his back House met her gaze, his bare feet crossed at the ankles, shirt and jeans as rumpled as ever and his hands folded across his stomach.

"That's his problem," House said with a crooked grin.

"You're not worried that he'll go around blabbing to everyone that you've gone soft?" she asked, knowing full well he couldn't care less if Wilson broadcast it on every radio station in town.

"Nobody would believe him if he did, therefore I have nothing to worry about."

"You're awfully confident about that."

"My confidence is just one of the many, many things you love about me."

"True," she said without hesitation, and gave him an ear-to-ear smile.

House hadn't mentioned his father since breakfast, and Cuddy wasn't about to let him lose his good mood by bringing it up. House deserved to have a night that wasn't dominated by bad fathers and worse memories. If House wanted to talk about his father, he would have to bring the bastard up himself. Right now she was more interested in seeing how their current conversation was going to end.

Cuddy asked him, "What is one of the many, many things you love about me?"

He reached to play with the collar of her blouse and answered, "That you took the time to pick up and dust off this old diamond in the rough. Nobody else would have given me a second glance. But you saw something shine underneath this harsh exterior, didn't you?"

Diamond in the rough. A rather peculiar way for House to describe himself, she thought. "What about Wilson?"

"We're not talking about Wilson; we're talking about you."

"Yes…well, you came to me for help. You had no one else to turn to. The least I could do was take you in and give you a cup of coffee."

"You gave me more than that," he said sincerely.

"I like to think so," she said, playfully batting his hand away. "If you're a diamond in the rough, what am I?"

"You're a roaring fire."

"A fire?" she puzzled. "I'm not a ruby to your diamond? I don't get it."

House hooked his arm around her waist, pulling her on top of him. His hands found their way under her blouse, roaming all over the warm, smooth skin of her back. Her heart was beating against his chest, her eyes wide with anticipation. She was waiting for his answer. He explained, "A diamond or a ruby only reflects the light, my dear Cuddy; fire creates its own."


	28. Chapter 28

"I really like having you here," House said, tracing a finger along her lower lip.

"I like being here," she assured him.

Pulling up the covers to guard against the evening chill, House said, "So I noticed. You're the flame and I'm the moth."

"The flame makes her own light." His earlier comment had been swirling around her head all evening. House a closet romantic? Could it be true? What else was he hiding under that gruff exterior? "I like the sound of that."

"You damn well should. It's true, you know."

"But why are you a moth now? What happened to the diamond in the rough?"

"Moth goes better with this analogy right now. No regrets with taking in the rough diamond-winged moth who landed on your doorstep?"

"None." She took his hand and threaded her fingers through his. "Would we be basking in the afterglow right now if I did?"

"Probably not."

"Exactly." After a few beats, she asked, "This isn't the first time you have asked me something like that. After all this time, why is it that do you seem to think you still don't deserve me? Or deserve anyone at all?"

House drew his hand away and turned over, switched on the lamp, and sat up. "Too much time alone, I suppose. Too much time to over-think these things, like why I was alone to begin with. Still not sure what I should do with myself and all this attention you give me. Still getting used to the idea of someone enjoying my company."

Too much time listening to his father's voice in his head, that was the real reason, but Cuddy held her tongue on that one. He blinked the sleepiness out of his eyes and looked down at his hands, his expression unreadable. He tugged at the blankets, making sure his scarred leg was covered up. The room was chilly, but House left his chest bare while Cuddy pulled the comforter up to her naked shoulders. They would be getting up and getting dressed soon; House was always famished after sex. The lamp light glowed behind him, bringing out the silver and charcoal threads in his hair. An almost angelic appearance, and Cuddy couldn't help but smile.

He looked down to see her staring and asked, "See something interesting?" with a raised eyebrow, like he didn't know whether he should smile along with her or wait to be amused by the joke she wasn't yet sharing.

"I see something I like very much," she replied, sitting up and throwing her arms around his neck. Nibbling on his earlobe, she felt more than heard him laughing.

"Mmmmm…who am I to argue with such a persuasive argument?" he murmured.

Cuddy was a bit surprised by his choice of words. "You're not in the mood to argue with me? Who are you and what have you done with Gregory House?"

"No imposter can satisfy you the way I do. Arguments can wait another day. Right now I'm in the mood to be kissed and nibbled and have nice things whispered in my ear. That's not an unreasonable request, is it?""

"Not at all. I can do that," she said softly. "You're a good man, House."

"If you say so. You say it like it you mean it. That counts for something."

"You're not alone anymore."

"I can see that."

"Your memories are just that, memories. You don't have to dwell on them anymore."

"Old habits die hard."

"I think it's time to let this habit die," she said, kissing him on his scruffy cheek, her hand drifting through the light dusting of hair on his chest. "It's time to focus on you and me and our future together."

"I should. Too bad it isn't always that easy." He made it sound like he was confessing a crime, like dwelling on his past was something to be punished for.

"It isn't," Cuddy agreed, knowing that just living through the events of his past was punishment enough. "You said you wanted to hear nice things. You should say some to yourself every now and then."

House laughed softly and said, "I'm the best doctor in your hospital and best lover you've ever had."

"I have to agree," Cuddy said, and noted the faint whisper of surprise that ghosted across his face. "You're not in the mood to argue and neither am I." The reason House called her over to his apartment was on the forefront of her mind, then an idea hit like a lightning bolt. "What did you do with the note?"

"Note?"

"The note you found in the box. Where is it?"

"I put it back in the box. Why?"

"Get up," she said briskly, then jumped up and went straight for his dresser, yanking it open and tossing him a clean t-shirt, then grabbing one for herself.

"What are we getting up for?" House questioned.

"Get up," she repeated. The blue and white t-shirt she picked for herself was about three sizes too big and slipped easily over her head. Opening another drawer, she tossed him a pair of well-worn black sweats and chose a forest green pair to wear.

"It's the note." He was still in bed, watching her get dressed. "What do you want with the note?"

"Why don't you get dressed and find out?"

"Tell me."

"No," she replied curtly, pulling the drawstring on the baggy sweats as far as it would go so they wouldn't fall down and pool around her ankles. "Hurry up and get dressed. We don't have all night."


	29. Chapter 29

"I don't want to get up," House protested. "Come back to bed and tell me some more nice things."

"I will later." She walked over and sat on the foot of the bed. "Now get dressed."

"No. Come back to bed. It's too cold without you."

"No. Get up."

"What the hell do you want with my father's note?"

"The sooner you get up and get dressed, the sooner you'll find out."

He didn't want to get up, she could see that. He wanted to lounge around some more before hunger finally drove him to stumble out to the kitchen for food, then watch his soaps for the rest of the night. Still, he must have some idea of what she wanted to do, he just couldn't bring himself to actually go through with it. At least not yet. Still hanging on to a relic of the past, and for what? Because he was convinced it was true? Or tying to convince himself that it really isn't. Either way all he need was a little push and he would take the lead.

"You owe me," he scowled, pulling a black Jack Daniels shirt over his head.

"I promise I'll make it up to you and then some."

"I'm holding you up to the 'and then some' part."

"If you don't moving, there isn't going to be anything to hold up. Now let's go."

House carefully moved his bad leg over the edge of the bed and asked, "How long is this going to take? I'm getting hungry."

"Just a few minutes."

"Really?" He sounded skeptical as he stepped into the sweats and pulled them up. "Is this going to be some kind of touchy-feely, getting in touch with my feminine side type of deal?"

"No. After we're done go ahead and call in an order of whatever you want and I'll pay for it."

"How can I pass that up?" House stood up and reached for his cane.

"You can't." Cuddy said.

They walked out into, Cuddy in the lead. She went straight for the box that was still on the floor. The note was on top of the endless pages of sheet music, the neat handwriting that might mask the vitriol of the words it formed at first glance. House was standing at the end of the coffee table, watching her with genuine curiosity.

She held out the note, just he had done several hours earlier. "Here."

"What am I supposed to do with that?" he asked quietly.

"Burn it."

He didn't even flinch, like he had been expecting her to say that. "What good will that do? Am I supposed to get some kind of closure out of it or something?"

"Don't think of it as closure, think of it as the start of a new chapter in your life."

"And then what?"

"And then we see where we go from here." She walked over and held out the note again. "Take it."

"This isn't going to change anything that happened between me and my father," House said stoically. "He's not going to suddenly be remembered as Ward Cleaver because I burned his stupid little note."

"I'm not asking you to change the past, I'm asking you to take another step in putting the past behind you and look towards your future. It's not going to be easy, you said that yourself. I know it's not going to be easy, but I'm going to be here to help you get through it. You are not the failure your father wrote about in this note. You are better than that. You have proven him wrong over and over again. Why should you hang on to a scrap of paper that says otherwise?"

Looking blankly at the scrap of paper in her hand, House said, "That son of a bitch was waiting for me to fail at everything I did. He was waiting for me to come crawling back home anyway so he could have the pleasure of turning me away at the door. He was waiting for me to ask if I could borrow some money to pay the rent in my roach-infested fleabag apartment so he could have the pleasure of saying no. He was waiting to find me pumping gas or flipping burgers for minimum wage so he could have pleasure of saying 'I told you so' to my face."

"Did you fail, House?"

"No."

"Did you go crawling back home?"

"No."

"Do you live in a fleabag apartment?"

"No."

Pushing the now crumpled note into his hand, she asked him, "What are you waiting for?"

House limped to the kitchen, pausing only to grab a lighter. He went straight for the sink, Cuddy right behind him, stepping where he stepped. She stood back as House flicked the lighter, an orange flame spilling out. Without a word he held his father's note over the flame, watching the paper curl, then ignite. He dropped it into the sink and they both watched as it turned black, the words burning away until they were no longer visible. Less than half a minute later there was nothing but a smoky pile of ashes.

"You did the right thing," she said, reaching out to touch his arm.

"I suppose I did." His eyes never left the blackened mess as he fanned the smoke away. "What would have happened if I had found this 30 years ago like I was supposed to?"

"Nothing."

"Really? Would you and I still get together?"

"Absolutely."

"You're right about that," House replied with a low chuckle, turning on the faucet. He didn't look away until the last scrap circled the drain and disappeared into oblivion. "I'm in the mood for Italian. How about you?"


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: This is the last chapter. A million thanks to all my readers. You guys are The Awesome!_

* * *

House really was in the mood for Italian, plowing through the double order of lasagna and breadsticks before Cuddy barely finished up her cheese ravioli. After cleaning up the take-out containers and crumbs, she joined him on the sofa and watched a _Cold Case Files _marathonwith his arms encircling her waist. She resisted the urge to ask why his soaps were having the night off, but was afraid he'd put one on just for spite. So she relaxed in his arms and listened to his running commentary on the stupidity of the various crimes and criminals profiled on the show.

What would have happened if House hadn't noticed her sitting in the coffee place? Where would they be now? Wilson did eventually forgive House--that was a very good thing--but about House's relationship with _her_? Most likely it would begin and end at the hospital, where he broke all her rules just to prove there wasn't a single rule he wasn't capable of breaking. She would be spending too many lonely nights sorting through the slim pickings on J-Date, and realize there is nobody on there worth the effort. As for House, Wilson's friendship could only help so much; he would be spending too many lonely nights with only bourbon and Vicodin to talk to. That was no way to live. No way to live at all. That's why they needed each other.

"Comfy?" House asked as a commercial came on, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Yes," she answered, and smiled. "You're always comfy. How about you? How's your leg?"

"My leg is fine."

"House…," she began with some hesitation, "do you think your father left you any more notes?"

"I know he didn't."

"How do you know? Did you look?"

"He was too busy waiting for me to fail to think about writing another note, and by then I was already long gone. Now if you don't mind I don't want to spoil the rest of this fine evening by talking about my father right now," he said in a low voice. Not angry, just making a request.

"All right."

Not even waiting for her to change the subject, House said, "Nothing like a quiet evening doing…nothing, is there?"

"We did do a few things before doing nothing," she reminded him.

"So we did. But we're doing nothing _now_ and that's what counts." House playfully nipped at her earlobe. "These are my favorite kind of evenings."

Cuddy asked, "Why's that?"

"Spending a quiet evening at home reveals a lot about someone," he replied. "It's told me a lot about you."

"Like what? The shows I like to watch, or the shows I'll watch with you?"

House explained, "We've spent many an evening in front of the television and the only thing you've ever complained about has been the soaps I watch. You're not the type to demand me and my leg take you to a five-star restaurant every night and order me to buy you a new wardrobe from Gucci every season. In fact, you're tickled pink to sit here in my living room, wearing my ratty old sweats and t-shirt, and eat twenty dollar take-out. You, the Dean of Medicine at one of the most prestigious teaching hospitals in the nation, would rather spend hours at the bowling alley instead of the opera."

She turned to face him. "I hate the opera, your ratty old sweats and shirts are very comfortable, and I'm perfectly capable of buying my own clothes, especially when they're on sale."

"I noticed," House said with a grin. "The only thing better than a new pair of shoes is a new pair of shoes at half-price, am I right?"

"You're right." Cuddy couldn't tell what he was more pleased with--his own observation of her evening habits or her confirmation of it. "Is that why you like me, because I'm low maintenance?"

"I like you because you're low maintenance and you don't mind the fact that I prefer television to the ballet, lasagna to caviar, and motorcycles to Mercedes."

"I don't judge a man's worth by the number of zeroes on his bank account--"

He cut in with a short laugh and said, "You don't want me for my money, Cuddy?"

"I want you for your body, and you wouldn't buy me a new wardrobe even if it meant forty straight hours of clinic duty. When are you and Wilson going bowling again?"

"Saturday."

"Mind if I tag along?"

"Nope. Should we grab pizza or filet mignon afterwards?"

"Actually, I'd love a hamburger and fries." It was the truth. The last time she had a good, greasy hamburger felt like eons ago, and her mouth watered at the thought of a burger and salty fries smothered with ketchup.

"You're on. It'll taste even better if Wilson pays for it."

Cuddy laughed and said, "I can pay for my own meals."

"Not if I make Wilson pay for them first."

"Really?" Cuddy said in mock scolding tone, giving him a swat on the arm. "You certainly know how to make a girl feel special, House. Do you always make Wilson pay for everything?"

"Not anymore," he answered. "He pays for everything automatically since he knows I'll make him pay for it one way or another."

She chuckled and said, "How about you pick up the check this one time?"

"Why should I do a silly thing like that?"

"I think Wilson deserves it, and I think you'd do that just to see the look on his face."

"Throw Wilson for a loop? That's an interesting thought." House pretended to think it over for a moment before saying, "It would be worth it just to see his face. I like the way you think."

"I think I've been hanging around you too long, House."

"But you still love me anyway."

"Yes, I do," she answered, then nearly had stroke when she realized what she had just replied to. Looking up at House, she could clearly see that he was equally dumbfounded at what he had just said. Except dumbfounded wasn't the right word--House looked like he had taken a sucker punch to the gut and was trying to catch his breath while pulling himself back onto his feet.

Licking his lips nervously, suddenly unable to look her in the eye, he began to stutter, "Cuddy…Cuddy, I--"

"House, I meant what I said," she told him in the quiet, serious voice she used at the hospital when she wanted to drive a point home. She cupped his chin and tilted his head up until their eyes were locked. "Don't you even think of trying to say that it just slipped out, that you didn't mean it, because both of us know better."

"I wasn't going to," he said, and meant it.

"Good." She gave him a tiny smile and was glad to see him relax a bit. "What were you going to say?"

"I…don't remember," he answered, still anxious as hell. "I wasn't going to say anything."

She found herself running her fingers through his hair since that intimate gesture always calmed him, and this time was no exception. After a few minutes, she quietly said, "Are you okay, House?"

"I hope so," he replied with a nervous laugh. "If not, I'm sure I will be one of these days."

"House?"

"Yes?"

"Do you love me?"

He answered without hesitation, "You know I do."

"Will you say it for me? Please?"

This time he looked her in the eye with no help at all. "I love you, Cuddy."

--The End.


End file.
